


Where the River Flows

by Nelsynoo



Series: Eleri Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Meeting, Fluff, I laugh in the face of canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because apparently I have a flagrant disregard for canon - what if Lavellan met Cullen before the events of Inquisition?</p><p>Clan Lavellan is camping in the mountains near Kirkwall when Eleri Lavellan encounters Cullen. Shenanigans ensue, a friendship is forged, and maybe something more.</p><p>This is a multi-chapter story featuring some graphic violence at times and, eventually, smut. Also brief appearances from some familiar faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Misty Mountains

The Vinmark Mountains were cloaked in fog, a thick blanket that smothered the peaks, making the landscape appear flat and featureless. The early evening sun, determined to be noticed, pushed its light through the haze, casting the mountain range in a sickly, sallow glow. Gullies and crags were hidden under the impenetrable shroud, making the mountain paths impassable save for the exceptionally brave (or immensely foolish). 

Careful feet picked their way across a narrow ridge as a lone elf made her way through the mountains. The rocky ground had been left treacherously slick by weeks of persistent rain and Eleri took small, tentative steps as she followed the crest of the ridge, wary that any misstep would send her ricocheting off sharp stone to the valley below. On either side of her, the ground dipped into nothingness, the pitted earth swallowed by thick fog. Idly, she wondered how far she would fall should she stumble, how far until she became acquainted with the jagged rocks she knew to be lurking in the impenetrable greyness. A dark part of her mind, the part born from a childhood delighting in ghost stories and haunting melodies, wondered whether she could fall all the way to the Deep Roads, where darkspawn and other, fouler, unknowable things lurked.

It had perhaps been foolish of her to venture from the Dalish encampment in such terrible weather just to collect some herbs. But Eleri was a confident pathfinder and she'd wanted to gather as many specimens as possible while the temperature held. The heavy rain and rolling fog was a clear indication that Autumn had arrived in earnest and it wouldn't be long before the temperature dropped too low and she was unable to harvest the herbs she wanted for another year. As the healer of her clan, it was her responsibility to ensure that she had enough medicine on hand and she was concerned that her stocks had fallen perilously low. It had been a tough summer for Clan Lavellan; crimson fever had struck in early Bloomingtide, spreading rapidly through their numbers until nearly the whole clan was affected. They had been lucky to lose only two of their number but the outbreak had exhausted almost all of Eleri's supplies and had kept the clan camped in the mountains near Kirkwall far longer than they'd planned.

The delay to their departure was causing significant unrest. The clan had never intended on coming so close to Kirkwall in the first place, had hoped instead to cross the Vinmark Mountain range from the Planasene Forest into Wildervale in the spring. But bandits, taking advantage of the widespread unrest brought about by the fighting between the mages and Templars, had made a stronghold in the mountains and were now terrorising the neighbouring regions, capturing elves to take north to the slave markets of Minrathous. And so the clan had been forced to stick to the coastal paths, following the sea until they’d reached Kirkwall.

Beset by dragons, Qunari attack and a bloody mage uprising, Kirkwall was seen by many among Clan Lavellan to be a cursed place. They’d planned to travel north quickly, crossing the mountains on the eastern side of the city and then onward to Starkhaven. But then the fever had struck and the elves had been forced to remain until all were fit to travel. 

When she reached the end of the ridge, Eleri found herself on a wide plateau, covered in tawny tufts of grass and tangled clumps of brambles. The fog was mercifully less dense here and she could see a little wooded area up ahead, thick dark branches clawing through the fog like the outstretched arms of drowning men. She knew the camp was just on the other side of the small forest and she hurried her pace, an expectant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth; she would soon be back in her tent with her furs and a steaming cup of tea.

As she neared the copse of trees, she was unexpectedly struck by a foul smell, the rancid, fetid, _clawing_ smell of burning flesh. She stilled, suddenly wary, and peered into the haze in search of an approaching threat, hand poised to reach for her bow should she need to defend herself. But the fog still veiled the mountainside in secrecy and, unable to determine the source of the smell, Eleri was forced to continue on.

As she entered the forest, the smell only intensified, clawing at the inside of her nose until the skin felt raw. Weaving through the trees, stepping over roots and ducking under sagging, black boughs, Eleri felt a growing uneasiness, an unshakeable sense of _wrongness_. The air was unnaturally still here, soundless and dense, like the whole forest was holding its breath.

When she felt something cold and smooth beneath her bare feet, she looked down to see her toes resting on the blood-stained blade of a great-sword, partially obscured by a hulking tree root. She furrowed her brow in confusion; odd to find a bloodied weapon without any apparent owner. Spurned by curiosity, she dropped to her haunches and reached out to pry the sword from the waterlogged earth, pushing firmly against the root to lift it from atop the blade. She was surprised at how readily the root yielded when she pushed, how it crumbled, dry and brittle, against her palm.

Suddenly she snatched her hand back and stumbled hastily to her feet. The tree root bore a _face_ ; two hollow eye sockets sitting atop a gaping mouth, contorted in pain and stretched impossibly wide. Eleri felt her stomach drop as it slowly dawned on her that it was not a root at all but the black, charred remains of a man at her feet.

Though burnt and blackened beyond recognition, Eleri could see that the man was wearing Templar armour. The steel was melted and warped, fusing with the flesh in a ghastly union of man and metal, but she could still make out the distinctive symbol of the Templar order upon his chest.

Eleri had seen a lot of dead Templars over the last year, bodies burnt or frozen or crushed into bloody, boneless heaps. While her clan tried to avoid the brutal civil war between mages and Templars as much as possible, there were few places left untouched by bloodshed and Eleri had become accustomed to seeing the forgotten dead for both sides.

As she gingerly continued her way through the wood, Eleri saw that the forest floor was peppered with corpses. Several more burnt Templars lay bent upon the ground, their limbs contorted at hideous, inhuman angles, their faces crumpled in pain. And there were a few mages too, their robes proving poor protection against piercing thrusts from the Templars’ great-swords. A dead mage woman, barely out of her teens, lay propped against a sturdy tree trunk, fingers probing at a deep gash across her abdomen. She’d been crying – her tears had left clean streaks across her muddy cheeks – and her eyes were wide with shock, as if startled by the discovery that being stabbed _hurt_. 

Eleri stopped and stared at the small, broken woman for a time, wondered what someone so young could have possibly done to invoke so much hatred, until she was pulled from her contemplation by a quiet snuffling sound. At first she thought it was the rustling of the wind through crumpled leaves and tangled branches. But the air was still strangely stagnant and the dark boughs curling above her were eerily motionless. Following her keen elven hearing, Eleri wound her way through the trees until she came across a young Templar sprawled upon the mud.

Face pale and lips spattered in blood, she would have assumed he was just as dead as his former comrades had she not noticed the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. His Templar skirts were thoroughly singed but the rest of him seemed relatively unscathed, suggesting a very close call with the same fire-wielding mage who had made quick work of his companions. Blood poured persistently from a wound on his left shoulder, seeping through the crack between pauldron and chest-plate, and dribbling in a crimson web across his torso.

For a brief moment she thought about leaving him, returning home to warm herself with a nice cup of tea while he lay alone in the cold and took his last, few, shallow breaths. After all, the untimely demise of a Templar shem was of little concern to her. But she quickly banished those cruel thoughts; she was a healer and she would do her best to save him, shem or not.

Kneeling in the mud at his side, she carefully removed his pauldron and chest-plate with slender, nimble fingers. The tunic underneath was adorned with a blossoming patch of scarlet and she hissed softly at the sight of the jagged gash darting from arm-pit to collar bone. She leant forward to get a better view, prodded the wound gently. It was relatively shallow, a dagger then rather than a sword, but it had been twisted as it was driven into soft flesh, rending apart skin and sinew. Whoever had stabbed him had wanted it to _sting_.

She reached into the brown leather satchel which hung from her shoulder and pulled out a handful of embrium. She worked the leaves between her fingertips then packed them into his wound to stave off infection. Then she ripped of a section of his skirt that was untouched by fire and used that as a makeshift bandage, tying it securely around his shoulder to stem the bleeding.

“You better not die,” she said, voice dark but with a hint of teasing, “because I walked three hours to find embrium specimens this good and I fully expect you to repay me.” She took his silence as acquiescence to her demand, smiled perversely as she gave him a brisk nod.

Satisfied that he wasn’t going to imminently bleed out on her, Eleri took off at a sprint through the forest. She knew she wouldn’t be able to carry a fully-grown and heavily-armoured man back to camp; she would need to rally the help of her clan to get him home. Of course some would object, tell her that the premature death of a belligerent shem was probably a good thing, but she had great faith in her clan and knew that most would be willing to offer their help to one in need. Or at least she hoped they would.


	2. On the Cusp of Consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen recuperates from his wound. There's blushing involved! - and an adorable dog!

Cullen felt _warm_. No longer was the wind whipping at his face, biting at his skin until it burnt. No longer was the icy rain seeping into the cracks between his armour, soaking his tunic and puckering his flesh. No longer were sharp stones digging into his joints, pushing the resilient cold into his limbs. Instead the air was warm, and the scents of lavender and freshly-brewed tea enveloped him.

Cullen felt _safe_. He could tell from the lightness of his limbs that his Templar armour was gone. And yet he was surprised by how much that fact didn’t alarm him. Settled on a bed of soft furs, a woolen blanket tucked primly around him, he could scarcely remember the last time he was so immeasurably comfortable.

Cullen felt… _wet_? Slanting one eye open, Cullen saw the muzzle of a mabari happily licking his face. He made a soft little grumbling noise as he dragged his thick, hot tongue over Cullen’s cheeks, leaving a sloppy trail of saliva from chin to ear. Cullen found himself smiling; there were worse things to wake up to.

“You’re awake,” came a bright voice from somewhere to his side and he slowly craned his stiff neck to locate its owner. An elf sat in a tumble of pillows on the floor, weaving dried herbs into long plaits then curling them into small, wooden pots. Dark blonde hair was coiled messily atop her head, accentuating her slender neck and delicately pointed ears, and tattoos adorned her temples, dark green tendrils reaching toward her hairline in a facsimile of outstretched branches.

He opened his mouth in an attempt to answer her but no sound came out, his throat ripped raw by the scream wrenched loose when the dagger found its mark in his shoulder. She furrowed her brow in concern at his strangled wheezing, scrambled hastily toward him across the floor of the tent, and cradled his head in her arms as she helped him drink some water. He gulped down the proffered water eagerly, reveling in the feel of cool liquid soothing down his parched throat.

“Better?” she asked.

He nodded. “Better.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Rebel mages… in the woods,” he explained, voice strained and rough. “We went to investigate when they… they attacked. Have any of my…?” His voice faltered when he saw her face drop, a clear answer to his unfinished question.

“All dead,” she said with a small, apologetic shake of her head.

Dead. Of course.

It disturbed him that their passing invoked only the faintest whisper of grief, only a gentle, dull murmur of sorrow at the back of his skull. There was a time when a single dead Templar had grieved him deeply. Shortly after his arrival in Kinloch Hold, a Templar was killed at a harrowing gone disastrously wrong. Cullen hadn’t been close to Ser Warwick, had only spoken to him on a few occasions, but the old Templar had been kind to him, had shown him around the Tower when he was still new and overwhelmed by his new posting. He’d even lent him a book, the kind of gritty thriller that he hadn’t expected to find in a mage’s circle.

Ser Warwick might have been the first Templar Cullen knew to be lost while on duty but over the years he’d been joined by several of their brethren. Ser Donald became the second, lost at another harrowing, and Ser Damas the third, killed when a young apprentice accidentally summoned a demon to the library. Then Ulrich went mad and Cullen hadn’t been able to keep count of the dead. He’d mourned them, deeply, _keenly_ ; every single Templar killed in the Ferelden circle had weighed heavily upon him until he thought the burden of their loss would crush him.

In time he learnt to shoulder the burden, to push it to the back of his mind while he focused on his duty to the Order, and by the time the rebel mages ripped apart the Kirkwall Circle with fire and ice, stone and storm, he no longer grieved for his brothers. Each death was only a fleeting burst of sadness, a momentary spark of regret, burning fast and hot then fizzling into a muffled hum that he was largely able to ignore.  

“You’re lucky that the wound on your shoulder was only a shallow one,” said the elf. “You’ve lost a fair bit of blood but I’ve wrapped up the injury as best I can. As long as you don’t get an infection, it should heal without a problem.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to – didn’t need to…” He couldn’t quite find the right words to express his gratitude for her unexpected kindness. When the mages had attacked, and everything became consumed in fire and screaming, he had thought that his death was inevitable, that whatever force had kept him alive throughout the atrocities of Kinloch Hold and the brutalities of the Gallows had finally decided that his end had come. Lying in the mud as the sounds of battle diminished and the smell of burnt flesh grew stronger, he made his peace with the world and waited for the moment when he would join the Maker’s side. Thinking back, he was a little ashamed at how easily, almost _willingly_ , he had just accepted his fate. He had not expected help to find him in the forgotten parts of the Vinmark Mountains.

“Am I with the Dalish?” he asked after a lengthy pause.

“What gave it away?” she teased, gesturing at her vallaslin while smirking crookedly.

“Do the Dalish… do this a lot?”

“Take in wayward, injured Templars? No” she said with barely contained amusement, “not habitually. There was some… resistance when I requested the Clan’s assistance in bringing you home. But they agreed to help in the end.”

Cullen was mystified. He’d always heard the Dalish were extremely hostile toward humans, would never have expected that they would come to his assistance. The young elf woman must have read the confusion written across his face because she gave a slight shrug.

“To leave a man to die just because he had the misfortune of being born a shemlen is immensely petty – and my clan is better than that.” Her mouth was curled into an easy smile but her eyes were serious and focused, conveying an immense pride in her people.

At his side, the mabari nudged his shoulder and gave a soft, low whine. Looking down, Cullen noticed a jaunty, crimson grin spreading across the woolen blanket pulled up to his neck. The elf followed his gaze and then tutted disapprovingly when she saw the growing patch of blood.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, an instinctual response to her pinched brows and displeased noises.

“For what?”

“Um… bleeding?”

She huffed out a warm chuckle, shaking her head in bemusement. “Well, yes, you should feel very sorry for your malicious bleeding. Try to control yourself.”

She leant over him, tugging away the blanket and peeling away a neatly-tied bandage from his shoulder to take a look at his wound. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered the long, tapered gash thoughtfully. Then she picked herself from the floor to retrieve a bowl of water and a clean cloth from atop a nearby trunk, returning to his side to perch on the cot. The outside of her thigh pressed against his side on the cramped cot and her scent, of elfroot and bow resin, washed over him. As she carefully cleaned the wound, small hands stroking along bare skin, Cullen was suddenly struck with how very _intimate_ the whole situation seemed. He hoped she was too intensely focused on his shoulder to notice the blush that was spreading slowly but determinedly across his cheeks.

It was oddly therapeutic watching her work, her movements sharp and deft. His eyes followed her fingers as she massaged a poultice onto his wound, mesmerised as she traced a pattern of concentric circles across his skin, and he soon found his eyelids drooping heavily. By the time she picked up a narrow length of cloth to bandage his shoulder, he was too tired to keep his eyes open and he focused instead on the shuddering sensations of soft fabric and warm skin pressed against him. Eventually, sleep claimed him, deep and heavy and mercifully free of dreams.

For several days Cullen drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes only staying awake for brief snatches of time, enough time to wolf down a meal and swig eagerly from a canteen of water. Every time he opened his eyes, the elf was there, Eleri he learnt, with a fresh bandage and a bowl of fruit and nuts. When she wasn’t tending to his shoulder, she sat cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap, made poultices from herbs or bandages from old rags, and sometimes played with her mabari, Melly. She liked to talk, Dalish folk stories or gossip from around the Clan, and he liked to listen, her bright, lilting voice reminding him of home and the cheerful twittering of his sisters.

Occasionally a member of the Clan would appear, seeking an elixir or a bandage for an injury. Usually they hovered hesitantly by the entrance to Eleri’s tent and waited for her to spot them. Only a brave few strode in, glowering at him stonily as she saw to their needs.

“And here I thought they were warming to me,” he quipped one day as a particularly surly elf glared at him over his shoulder as he left Eleri’s tent.

She chuckled warmly as she tidied away her bottles and bandages. Her tent was a mess (cosy, she insisted), a haphazard jumble of clothes, books, carved wooden trinkets and assorted weaponry. But her medical equipment was meticulously organised, arranged in a large, leather-bound trunk with each item returned to its rightful place after use.

“They _are_ warming to you! That they tolerate you at all is evidence of their warmth.”

“If this is a warm reception, I would hate to witness a cold one.”

“You’re right – you would,” she replied, her eyes hooded and dark but her smile twisted in the characteristic smirk with which he was fast becoming acquainted.

It had become apparent to Cullen shortly after his arrival that the elves were keen to leave Kirkwall, several aravels having already been packed in preparation for their departure. It seemed his slow recovery was the only thing keeping them here. They wouldn’t leave without their healer and Eleri wouldn’t leave until Cullen was in a fit enough state to return to the Gallows. And so they waited, and they glared at him as if they could will him to heal through scowls alone.

Cullen shared their frustration; he was not good at convalescing. Always an active man, a _dutiful_ man, Cullen had missed only a few days of service since he’d started his Templar career over ten years ago. Lying in a cot all day doing nothing made his limbs itch, thrumming in un-spent energy. But he found that he enjoyed Eleri’s company a great deal. She was a natural storyteller, lively and animated, with an impressive repertoire of tales ranging from the bawdy to the chilling. She laughed at her own jokes, a rich chuckle he found immensely endearing, dark and dirty. He was somewhat taken aback when it occurred to him that there was no one else in Kirkwall with whom he shared such easy conversation.

When Cullen’s shoulder was almost healed, he watched curiously from Eleri’s tent as the camp erupted with activity. The tents were folded away, their supplies and equipment loaded onto the aravels. Children tore through the camp, screaming and flailing, weaving through legs and earning terse reprimands from the clan elders. He wondered whether he was the first human to ever witness such a sight, such mundane domesticity among the Dalish. Those who considered the Dalish to be barbaric and cruel, lacking in even the most basic of familial feelings, had clearly never witnessed them as he had.

Eleri bustled into her tent, arms laden with a platter of food and a swathe of blue, shimmering fabric.

“What’s this?” he asked as she thrust the generous array of food into his lap.

“We feast each time we pack up camp – eat everything that won’t travel well. It seemed only fair to bring you something since you’re not well enough to come to the party.”

He bit into a thick chunk of bread, sweet and dotted with dried fruit, and tried to stifle the pleasured groan he felt bubbling in his throat. “And what’s that?” he asked, gesturing at the jewel-blue material draped in her arms.

“This is for me,” she announced, eyes twinkling mischievously, “for tonight.” Without warning she unlaced the front of her tunic and pulled it over her head. Cullen abruptly averted his gaze, stared pointedly at the ceiling of the tent. The Dalish seemed to have very different attitudes toward decency and Eleri regularly left him blushing by stripping off in front of him. She seemed to find his blustering endearing and, thinking of no good reason why she should be ashamed of her own body, ignored his repeated requests for her to warn him before undressing.

He listened to the rustling of fabric and then, when he thought it was safe, let his eyes drift down from the roof of the tent. But he’d been premature, and a flush burnt a path up the back of his neck when his eyes fell on soft, bronzed skin. She stood with her back to him, swaying her hips from side to side as she shimmied out of her trousers. The sun was low in the sky, only a dim, sputtering light reaching into her tent, but a small lantern hanging in the centre of the room was enough to illuminate the planes of her back. The light danced upon her flexing muscles and Cullen found himself transfixed by the twisting patterns of gold. Once she’d stripped down to only her smallclothes, she slipped the blue material over her head and Cullen fought the urge to vocalise his disappointment as her lean flesh was once again hidden from view.

When she turned to face him once more, a crooked, toothy grin broke across her face and he knew that she’d caught him staring. “What do you think?” she asked, smoothing the front of her dress with her palms.

The dress was far shorter than any Ferelden or Free Marcher design, stopping a fair few inches short of her knees. The fabric was light and gauzy, moving enticingly with every gesture of her body, and the bright shade of blue was startling against her tanned skin. From her smug, satisfied expression he knew he didn’t really need to answer but his mother had always told him to respond to questions as honestly and fully as possible.

“You look… beautiful,” he answered, his smile soft and skin tinged pink with embarrassment.

Her grin faltered somewhat, taken aback by his earnestness, and her face clouded with an uncharacteristic shyness. Cautiously, she stepped to the cot, bent over him, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. “Thank you,” she murmured against this skin.

She smiled at him as she stepped back, not her usual, teasing smirk but something small and genuine. “Melly will look after you. She’ll come get me should you need anything,” she said, scratching her faithful mabari behind one pointed ear.

He thought he should say something; another compliment, perhaps, _anything_ to keep her from leaving him. But Cullen couldn’t think of the right words and instead watched helplessly as she skipped from her tent and disappeared into the night. 

“She’s gone,” he noted, surprised by how keenly he felt Eleri’s absence, how empty the tent seemed without her constant chatter and hearty laughter. Melly slanted her eyes at him, head tilted, and Cullen got the distinct impression that she was judging him for sounding so pathetic.

“You don’t have to worry – she’ll be back,” he said, more a reassurance to himself than to the mabari.

Melly gave a sad whine.

“We don’t need her – we have each other, right Melly?”

Melly snorted derisively.

“Fine – be that way. And here I thought we were really making a connection.”

Melly looked at him almost piteously.

“Right. I’m talking to a dog. This is mildly embarrassing… And yet I continue…”

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the ‘accidentally sees someone undressing’ cliché – what can I say? I’m unrepentantly trashy like that.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	3. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's health takes a turn for the worse.

Feet stomped the ground in time with the drums, a quick, nimble rhythm adorned with the high-pitched trilling of pipes and the heady thrum of a violin. Bodies twisted under the midnight sky, arms arching and legs entwined. There were no steps to follow, no proscribed moves, just a jumble of pulsing bodies, turning and swaying with the music. Small lanterns of coloured glass hung from the branches that curled above the revellers, painting the dancers in stripes of crimson and bursts of sapphire.

Eleri loved to dance, loved to lose herself in sounds and sensations. Pushing all conscious thought aside, she focused instead on the runs and trills of the music, the press of a warm palm against the small of her back. She fancied herself a rather exceptional dancer; while grace was a common trait among the elves, there were few who matched her sheer enthusiasm for movement and melody.

Her partner, Hensel, dipped her theatrically before pulling her up into a spin. She laughed at his showmanship, her whole face alight with carefree joy. Strong, broad hands skimmed across her hips before he twined his fingers between hers to lead her confidently into a chasse, his feet perfectly mirroring her own as they stepped between the throng of people. She was always selective with her dance partners, requiring someone who would be able to match her speed and poise, and Hensel was a frequent favourite. He was tall, which made it easier to spin beneath his arms, and his unusual strength enabled him to lift her with ease.

Suddenly Eleri felt a sharp tug and she came to an abrupt halt, immediately pulling her wandering thoughts back into sharp focus. She looked down to see Melly’s jaw firmly pulling at the hem of her skirt. Disentangling herself from Hensel’s arms, pointedly ignoring his frown at having been interrupted, she dropped to her haunches.

“What’s wrong, Melly?” she asked, brows knit in concern.

Melly answered with a low, keening whine, the kind Eleri knew to be an indication of something terrible. Gripped by sudden panic, she pushed her way through the crowd and followed her mabari back to her tent.

When she burst through the flap into the stifling, stagnant air of her tent, she immediately knew that something was very wrong. Cullen was slumped on her cot, a tray of food scattered across the floor from when it had slipped from his grip. She rushed forward and placed one hand against his forehead, hissing a few choice curse words between gritted teeth when she felt how he burnt. Uncharacteristically trembling hands tugged hastily at the laces of his shirt and after she’d pulled it open, she gingerly peeled away at the bandage on his shoulder.

The smell of rotting flesh, foul and thick, was overpowering. Dense globules of puss oozed from the wound as she drew the bandage aside and his whole shoulder was red and inflamed. The infection must have set in fast but she cursed herself for not having spotted something sooner, cursed Cullen as well for not having mentioned his discomfort or growing temperature.

“He looks awful. Is he ok?” came Hensel’s voice from behind her and Eleri glanced over her shoulder to see him hovering by the entrance to her tent.

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “No.”

Hensel was sent to fetch a bowl of water, given strict instructions to hurry, while she gathered her supplies from her trunk. When she settled once more at Cullen’s side, she took a long, steady breath before getting to work. Her hands danced with a speed borne from years of experience and diligent practice but she was unnerved at the slight wobble in her fingers, the tiny shake of her shoulders as she struggled to control the panic that bubbled inside at the sight of Cullen’s pale, prone form. She drained as much puss as she could from the wound, cleaned it with water before smothering the area in poultices. Pouring an elixir into his mouth, she stroked his throat to force him to swallow. 

When she’d done all she could, she crumpled to the floor, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. She felt Hensel place a steadying hand on her shoulder and she gave it a squeeze in silent thanks.

“Now what?” he asked, peering down at Cullen with a mixed expression. He resented the Templar’s presence, thought he had no place among the Dalish, but he also understood why Eleri was determined to help him, maybe even admired her a little for her dogged insistence that Clan Lavellen take him in. No man should be left to die, to feel the current of life slowly ebb away, with nothing but the corpses of his comrades for company.

“Now we wait – and pray.”

Eleri wasn’t usually one to resort to prayer, preferring instead to place her faith in her skills as a healer. She did believe in the creators, dimly, a lingering thought at the back of her mind, but didn’t think they played an active part in her life, didn’t think they took a personal interest in her fortunes. She thought of them as distant observers, offering support and guidance without actively meddling. But she knew Cullen was a devout man; they’d spent several evenings discussing the differing religions of their people, exchanging stories and philosophies. And so she prayed because she thought that was what he would want.

She watched Cullen closely throughout the night, forcing elixirs down his throat and cooling his brow with a damp cloth. Hensel remained with her, idly flicking through the books that littered her tent’s floor and stroking Melly soothingly when she whimpered. Eleri was immensely grateful for his presence, for his occasional attempts to lighten her wretched mood with gossip or mundane chatter. It unnerved her how much it _hurt_ to see Cullen shuddering upon her cot. He was just another patient, after all, and she had treated hundreds just like him before.

Except he _wasn’t_ just another patient. Somehow she had grown inordinately fond of Cullen. They’d spent the better part of a month together, trapped in the confines of her small tent, talking, _just talking_. And yet it had been one of the most emotionally intimate experiences of her life. She told him things she’d never told anyone before, things she scarcely admitted to herself. She told him of her hopes for the future, of imparting her medical knowledge to eager students, of falling in love with someone who challenged her, of filling her tent with bright-eyed, blonde-haired children. But she also told him of her fears, her concerns for the future of the Dalish, how sheltered and detached she felt from the rest of Thedas.

She thought it right that the Dalish should distance themselves from the world of men, shield themselves from the violence and cruelty at which the humans seemed to excel, but distance bred ignorance and she was embarrassed by her Clan’s narrow-mindedness. It seemed ridiculous that the Dalish fought so hard to preserve the knowledge of the past while willfully ignoring the present world. Surely such isolationism would only serve to weaken them. Many Dalish considered such thoughts treasonous but Cullen had just listened patiently and without judgement.

As the sun began to poke her head above the mountains, and the edge of the sky became tinged with pink, Eleri began to feel a swell of panic. Despite her best efforts, the fever had only intensified. His face was pale, beads of sweat clinging persistently to his temples, but the skin around his wound was red and bulging. His limbs quivered, making the wooden frame of the cot creak with each tremulous spasm.

“His fever is worsening,” she murmured, hoping Hensel didn’t notice the way her voice hitched. “We need to make it break.”

She gracelessly pulled herself to her feet, limbs stiff and slow from spending the whole night perched on the side of the narrow cot. “Grab his legs,” she commanded, “I need your help getting him to the river.”

“The river?” Hensel asked sceptically, eyebrows arched and nose crinkled.

“The cold water will break his fever,” she snapped irritably, not wanting to waste time answering questions. “Now stop talking and start lifting.”

Hensel gave an exasperated sigh but complied with Eleri’s request nonetheless. She had a forcefulness that was hard to deny and a temper which, though rare, snapped and crackled like lightening. It was clear from her ashen face and drawn features that the long, sleepless night had left her brittle and stretched. If he could alleviate her burden in some way, he was more than willing to try.

Together the two of them manhandled Cullen to the river. Their progress was slow, feet stumbling under the cumbersome weight and hands struggling to gain purchase on skin slicked by sweat. Melly lead the way, barking intermittently so the elves could follow her as she forged a path through the brushwood.

When they reached the river, they placed Cullen gently into the rushing waters, carefully propping him against the mossy bank. Cool, glassy waters kissed fevered flesh, smothering the fires that raged under reddened skin. Sitting cross-legged atop the damp sand at the water’s edge, Eleri watched him intently, searching for any sign that his temperature was dropping, that her last-ditch attempt at breaking his fever was working.

For a while, Hensel stood and watched his friend with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Ever the keen observer, he didn’t miss the way her eyes drooped every time Cullen gave a strangled whimper, the way she wrung her hands to hide how they trembled. He had seen her treat countless patients, seen her single-minded determination when faced with a particularly stubborn ailment and her stoic grief when she failed. But he had never seen her look so desolate at the prospect of losing someone. It was unsettling to see his friend so wholly undone by some shem stranger.

As the sun crawled higher through the sky, Hensel lost patience with their vigil and said his farewells to Eleri (though he suspected she didn’t really hear him). He hoped for her sake that the fever broke soon; the Clan was eager to leave, the camp all but packed, and they would not tolerate another delay to their departure. He feared that Eleri would soon have to choose between tending to her charge and remaining with her Clan. What feared him more was that he wasn’t entirely sure which she would choose. 

Melly tentatively nudged Eleri’s thigh with her paw before settling by her side and resting her head in her lap. She gave a soft, light bark followed by an encouraging little growl and was rewarded with the tiniest whisper of a smile on Eleri’s lips.

The revelries of the night before seemed so very long ago; the memories of frenzied dancing and pulsing music only a dim echo at the back of her head. With the sun at her peak, Eleri knew that the camp would be alive with activity, with lively laughter and easy conversation. She should be gossiping with friends about the night’s antics. She should be preparing elixirs for those Clan members who had over-indulged on cider. She should be packing up her possessions in preparation for the long, onward journey to Starkhaven. 

But instead she waited, and prayed, and tried to ignore the erratic pounding of her panicked heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	4. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Eleri say their farewells.

Cullen was alone.

He lay sprawled across the cold, hard flagstones of Kinloch Hold, boneless limbs slumped against blood-slicked stone. His Templar armour felt impossibly heavy; a metal cage that pinched and scraped at his skin. His limbs were stiff from non-use, heavy and uncomfortably contorted from when he’d collapsed, pained and spent, upon the floor. He stared at the wall in front of him, at the red sacks of flesh and writhing limbs that clung to the stone. The bloody matter pulsed and shuddered, twitched and trembled, and Cullen tried desperately to ignore the growing realisation that all that remained of his friends was bloody viscera smeared along the walls of the Tower. 

Suddenly, there was a change in the air; a faint stirring like a tremulous yawn.

Cullen was _not_ alone.

And that terrified him more than the endless solitude, more than the anguished screams that shook the walls as they reverberated down from the Harrowing room, or the coppery tang of blood that hung so thick in the air, it shredded his nostrils with every breath.

Spindly hands wrapped around his arm, squeezed gently as if in greeting, and a shuddering gasp, warm and thick, rolled along the back of his neck. He didn’t need to turn his head to know that it was the abomination. _Always_ the abomination. Watching, whispering, _taunting_ , words sweet and sharp, dripping from plump lips curled into a cruel sneer. He longed for solitude, prayed not for freedom (for he’d long given up on ever being free from the Tower) but merely to be left alone. Long, slender fingers snaked languidly up his arm, brushed along the column of his throat before burying themselves in the curls at the nape of his neck in a grotesque approximation of intimacy. Lips pressed to his temple; a kiss that burnt like a brand against his skin. A sharp, piercing pain punctured his skull, grated against bone as it pushed persistently inward.

Cullen screamed.

He came to with a start, eyes breaking open then immediately crinkling shut as they were assaulted by the startling morning sun. For a few moments he just lay stock-still, taking in deep, steadying breaths while consciously trying to slow the pounding of his heart. He had been plagued with nightmares most nights since enduring the horrors of Kinloch Hold, had mostly learnt to live with them, like the persistent, dull ache of an injury that had never properly healed.

His limbs were light, long liberated from his Templar armour. And there was soft grass beneath his body instead of unyielding, blood-slicked stone. Sand needled the skin between his fingers, a pleasant chafing that reminded him of lazy afternoons spent lying next to the river at the end of the family garden, letting the sun’s rays dry his body after a refreshing dip.

Suddenly he realised that someone was holding his hand, delicate fingers entwined with his own. That was… unexpected.

He slowly opened his eyes, letting himself become gradually accustomed to the brightness, and was surprised to find Eleri lying on the grass in front of him. Though their bodies didn’t touch, she was close enough that he could feel the heat of her, feel the air stirring between them from her gentle snoring. Her hair was a mess, dark blonde clumps sticking to grime-streaked skin, and her eyes were smudged with purple. Even in sleep, her brows were furrowed from worry and Cullen found his heart skitter in perverse pleasure. That someone cared enough for him to worry over his wellbeing was a precious thing.

He reached out with the hand not held tightly in her own, started to trace the curling green ink across her temple when her eyes suddenly snapped open. He stopped, fingertips poised tentatively against her skin and a blush spreading rapidly across his cheeks at having been caught in such an intimate gesture.

“You’re awake,” she breathed with evident relief and he was pleased to see a smile spread across her lips. Curiously, and to Cullen’s great delight, she made no attempt to remove his hand or retreat from his touch.

“A pertinent observation,” he teased, hand falling to rest on the sandy grass between them. Her smile brightened, curling into an amused smirk at his modest attempt at humour. Some of the tension began to flee from her face, pushed aside to make room for the contentment that was now settling in her features, in the curve of her mouth and the warmth of her eyes.

She sat up, brushed the leaves and twigs from her dress of brilliant blue, now dull and clingy from sweat and grime.

“Where are we?” he asked, confused to find himself no longer in Eleri’s tent.

“By the river. Your wound became infected and you developed a fever. I brought you here to dunk you in the river – I hoped that the water would break the fever.” 

“Well I’m not dead – clearly you were right.”

“I usually am,” she said with a forced bravado that didn’t quite mask the lingering fear, the twinge of helplessness, that shadowed her eyes. His condition must have been dire indeed then. 

There was a peculiar moment of silence between them as Eleri helped him sit upright. Normally an incessant chatterer, Eleri’s sudden reticence was unnerving. Cullen could tell from her face, the slight pull at the corners of her eyes, the twitch in her bottom lip, that she wanted to say something. But the words remained trapped behind her tongue and teeth, and Cullen wasn’t sure how to coax them forward.

“You carried me here on your own?” he finally asked.

She barked out a laugh. “Yes – for though I am tiny, I am mighty, and I bore you here with my amazing man-strength,” she drawled sarcastically, before swatting him playfully on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous – I had help from a friend. He went back to camp some time ago though. I’ve been stuck here waiting for you to wake up so you can walk yourself back to the tent.”

“How long have I been unconscious?!”

“Two days – I was getting a bit bored to be honest.”

“Two days!”

“Don’t worry – I had Melly for company and I’ve made some bloody _marvellous_ sand-castles.” She gave a shrug, a little forced, clearly an attempt to alleviate his guilt for having kept her in the forest to watch over him. “Besides, I’m an elf – I can find endless satisfaction in the forest.”

He looked at her a little stunned. “Thank you,” he said, words breathy and thick with emotion, “this is the second time you’ve gone out of your way to help me, brought me back from the brink of death.”

“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” she said forcefully, a little exasperated, “I’m a healer and it’s my duty to help.”

Ah, duty, of course.

Her words stung more than he would have liked to admit. Obviously, it was her obligations as a healer that kept her by his side, not any particular partiality. He felt a little silly for thinking that she helped him because she cared for him and not merely out of professional concern. He chastised himself for harbouring such foolish sentimentality.

“Do you think you can move?” she asked as she staggered to her feet. “It’s probably a good idea to get back to camp.”

She proffered him her hand, which he gladly took, and helped manhandle him unsteadily to his feet. They walked back to the camp in a tense silence, their steps slow and laboured as Cullen leaned awkwardly on Eleri, his thick arm weighing heavily on Eleri’s narrow shoulders. Melly padded up ahead, looking over her shoulder to stare at the pair impatiently.

While his limbs were stiff from his extended bout of unconsciousness, and his whole body was tired from exerting so much effort to fight off the infection, it felt good to move again. He’d been trapped in Eleri’s tent for so long that he felt an inordinate amount of pleasure just from _walking_ , breathing in the fresh air, crisp and cool, and staring up at the endless stretches of blue, at the birds that dashed and dove in frantic circles above the green canopy.

When they’d cleared the forest and reached the clearing where the Dalish had set up their camp, Cullen was alarmed to discover that the Clan was gone. Eleri’s tent stood as a lone shelter in the glade that had once been bustling with activity. There were no more children tearing between aravels and tents, no craftsmen working at furnaces or workbenches. He turned to Eleri, expecting to see her gripped with panic and concern. Instead she just looked resigned, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, but not particularly distressed.

“The camp is gone!” he exclaimed, feeling foolish for stating something so patently obvious but unable to think of what else he could say.

“Yes – I suspected this would happen. The Clan had tarried long enough and they weren’t going to delay their departure plans again just to accommodate your uncooperative shoulder.”

Cullen looked shocked and dumbfounded, both that the Clan had left her and that she seemed so calm about the whole situation. She must have noticed his surprise because she placed a small hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it - they won’t have gone far and I have Melly to help track them. They won’t have gone somewhere I can’t easily follow. I’ll catch them up soon enough.” 

She led him back to her tent, helped settle him back on the cot that had been home for nearly a month. It startled him to realise just how fond he had grown of Eleri’s tiny, cramped abode. The Clan had largely emptied the tent, taking the larger pieces of furniture and her trunk with them, but a few, personal items remained: the mobile of colourfully painted wooden birds that hung above her table, the earthenware teapot with a spout shaped like a howling wolf, the blue silk draped across one wall of the tent, meticulously embroidered with silver and gold threads. It was cozy and he felt comfortable there, _safe_ even.

For several more days the two of them stayed in what remained of the Dalish camp. Cullen was adamant that he was well enough to return to Kirkwall but after his sudden downturn, Eleri wasn’t taking any chances. She would not let him go until she was absolutely certain that he was fully recovered. He savoured these last few days, fully aware that they were likely the last moments he would spend with Eleri. He had come to treasure her easy laughter, the gentle cadence of her voice when she was fully captivated with storytelling, the curious spark that always seemed to dance in her eyes, and he knew that he would miss them, would miss _her_ , once he had returned to Kirkwall.

Eleri was keen for Cullen to be active again, to return strength to limbs left weak through inactivity, and so they went for long walks through the forest during the day. Eleri told Dalish folk stories while Cullen recounted Ferelden history, the pair occasionally slipping into comfortable silence as they listened to the sounds of the forest, the snuffling of animals and the hum of the wind rattling through branches. Sometimes, when she left the tent with bow in hand to hunt rabbits, he would read her books. Most of them were scientific encyclopedias but there were a few compendia of Dalish poetry littered across her floor. At night she would play on a small harp, a happy, bubbling tune like the twittering of birds.

Cullen couldn’t remember the last time he felt so carefree and easy.

Since the Chantry was destroyed and chaos erupted throughout Kirkwall, Cullen had been burdened with reconstruction efforts, keeping abominations at bay and curbing the criminal elements that sought to thrive in the resulting mayhem. As acting Knight-Commander, it was Cullen’s duty to lead what remained of the Templars in Kirkwall, to give them some sense of purpose and stop them from joining the Civil War that was now brewing throughout Thedas. Though he would never admit it, the month he’d spent in Eleri’s tent had been a welcome reprieve. With nothing to do except recover his health, he had been able to soak up her joy and optimism without hindrance.

When Eleri was content that Cullen was back to full health, he helped her pack up her tent as best as he could. Some things had to be left behind but most of her possessions (and she didn’t have much) fit into a pack. When he’d helped her affix her pack to her back she seemed impossibly burdened, far too tiny to carry everything. But she insisted that she was fine, that the Dalish were tougher than they looked, and that she was used to carrying her entire life on her back.

Cullen insisted that he accompany Eleri for the start of her journey and so they walked together for a time through the forest, heading north toward the Sundermount Pass through the Vinmark mountain range. Silence hung heavy between them, both feeling saddened at the loss of the other but neither wishing to vocalise their feelings, afraid of what it would mean if either admitted just how much they cared.

When they’d crested the ridge adjacent to the pass, they stopped to say their goodbyes. Melly whined softly and Cullen bent down to press his nose against hers, ruffling behind her ears with soothing scratches.

“Take it easy for a while,” Eleri said firmly, “the wound could still reopen and I don’t want some shem _butcher_ making a mess of my fine work.”

He smiled. “I promise to treat your handiwork with all due respect.”

She laughed, a bright ringing noise that seemed to fill the entire valley.

Cullen’s smile suddenly faltered, a mantle of solemnity falling over his features. “I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me. I - I thought I was going to die in that forest.”

“You’re a good man, Cullen, and you didn’t deserve to die in that miserable place.” She paused, fixing his eyes with her own steely gaze. “I am glad that I saved your life.”

He held out his hand to give her a perfunctory shake. She arched one brow at him quizzically, curled her mouth into a smirk, and pulled him into a tight embrace instead. She settled her head against his chest, and his tall, broad body curled around her far smaller frame. He tried to commit every detail of her to his memory: the deceptive strength she held in lean limbs; nimble, clever fingers atop calloused palms; and her earthy smell, green and fresh. If this was to be their end, if she was to become merely a distant, fond memory, he wanted it to be a good one.

When she pulled away, her smirk faded into something small and mournful. She parted her lips as if to say something, paused for a moment with mouth agape before drawing it into a thin line and shaking her head ruefully. She turned without another word and started picking her way cautiously down the ridge toward the mountain pass. Melly followed in her wake, stubby tale wagging enthusiastically at the prospect of exploring new territory.

He watched her as she walked away, eyes fixed on her slowly retreating form. He was disappointed that she didn’t look back, didn’t flash him one more brilliant smile, merely marched ever onward, body bent from her heavy pack. When she was finally out of sight, he turned to start the long walk back to Kirkwall.

It had been invigorating, this carefree, little interlude. He’d learnt so much of the Dalish, the richness of their history, the complexity of their social relations, and he felt privileged to have witnessed something usually kept hidden from humans. It had also been a surprise, finding a friend in this forgotten part of the Vinmark Mountains. He had been inspired by Eleri’s curiosity, touched by her compassion, and he would forever be grateful for everything she had done to save his life.

But Cullen was a Templar; Cullen had duties and responsibilities, and a broken city to hold together through sheer stubbornness and force of will. Yes, it had been a pleasant respite but now it was time to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this is not the end for Cullen and Eleri! Because I am a sap and I need romance!
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Picking up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to return to his normal life but fails miserably.

A string of expletives rushed to Cullen’s mind as he cradled his thumb to his chest. Blood spurt from split skin with remarkable enthusiasm, painting his left hand and sleeve with bold stripes of crimson. His thumb was already turning an alarming shade of purple as the flesh swelled and puckered. It hurt. _A lot_. A throbbing, pulsing pain that came in quick, surging bursts of building intensity.

It was yet midday but Cullen had already been working for several hours, clearing debris, repairing roofs and rebuilding walls across Kirkwall. It had been raining persistently since sunrise; fine, mist-like droplets that somehow managed to sneak into every crease, collar and cuff. Damp clothes chafed against his skin, leaving angry red blisters across his flesh, and his joints creaked uncomfortably from the cold.

And now, just to make his morning _extra special_ , he’d bashed a bloody hammer into his bloody thumb.

He wanted to shout invectives at the sky, wanted to curse the Maker for taking such apparent delight in torturing him, wanted to unleash a chain of curses so foul that everyone within earshot would immediately faint from shock.

Instead he muttered a tart, “oh bother.”

With his uninjured hand he groped clumsily at the pouch on his belt, eventually managing to retrieve a bandage which he hastily wrapped around his thumb. A sigh pushed its way between his clenched teeth as he secured the bandage with a knot. Since the Chantry had been destroyed, Cullen had devoted every waking hour into restoring the city. He liked to feel useful, took pleasure from helping others, but he was _tired_ , overwhelmed by the responsibilities that had fallen upon him quite unexpectedly when Meredith had turned to stone. How could he expect to keep the city together when he couldn’t even fix a broken fence without causing himself serious bodily harm?

So tired was he that he often found himself longing for the days spent ensconced in a fur-lined cot with a constant supply of honeyed tea. It had been several weeks since he had left the hospitality of Clan Lavellan, left the sounds of rustling winds and shouting children, left the smells of a forest made fresh by rain. It seemed so long ago, so unreal, that if it weren't for the lingering ache in his shoulder, he would have thought he'd imagined the whole thing.

Sometimes, when he was lying awake in his bunk in the Gallows, too tense to allow himself to drift off to sleep, he thought of Eleri. He heard her bubbling laughter or her light, lilting voice telling some terrible joke. Sometimes he could picture her eyes sparkling with mirth and pride after devising a particularly egregious pun. She’d always taken such joy in her own humour, laughing heartily at every terrible instance of wordplay, every hackneyed punch-line, and he’d found it immensely endearing.

Of course he didn’t _miss her_. That would be absurd; he hardly knew her.

Suddenly a loud bark punctuated the jumbled racket of the busy Hightown courtyard, pulling his thoughts away from tinkling laughter and plush woodland and back to rain-soaked Kirkwall. It was probably Miss Fisher’s obnoxious little yippy thing, he thought with a sneer. That little monster had bitten him more times than he could count, somehow always managing to draw blood even though he wore Templar plate. Given how superbly his day was progressing thus far, it seemed fitting for Miss Fisher’s demon dog to make an appearance. But the barking was deep and loud, a low, rich rumbling too powerful and dignified to be coming from Miss Fisher’s monstrosity. And it was getting louder; something was approaching.

Cullen turned to see Melly careening toward him, thick stubby legs carrying her great heft across the square. She came to an abrupt stop at his feet, paws skidding across the rain-slicked flagstones as her momentum carried her forward. It immediately struck him how incongruous it was to see her here. Melly belonged in the forest, romping gleefully through mud and barking at squirrels as they scrambled up towering trees, not in Kirkwall’s cold, grey streets. But once his shock at seeing her had abated, he was suddenly hit with a wave of panic. _What was Melly doing in Kirkwall_? What possible reason would induce her to leave Eleri’s side?

He crouched down to her eye level, placed a comforting hand on her head.

“What’s wrong, girl? Where’s Eleri?”

Melly gave a low, strangled growl followed by a quiet whimper. Her eyes were slanted, shoulders shaking in obvious distress. If he had been mildly panicked before, now he was completely gripped with terror. Something truly awful must have happened to work Melly into such a state.

He pulled himself to his feet and started striding across the courtyard, coming to an abrupt stop when he realised he wasn’t actually sure what he was going to do. He couldn’t exactly run blindly across the Vinmark Mountains in the hope of, somehow, eventually, finding Eleri. And if she was in trouble, how would he be able to help on his own? For a moment he contemplated taking a unit of Templars with him but then immediately dismissed the idea. He couldn’t use Templars to carry out a personal errand; finding wayward Dalish healers wasn’t exactly under the remit of the Chantry.

No, he needed to find help elsewhere. Needed to find someone who could handle a fight but also someone who cared for those in need, someone who believed in lost causes and rallied for the underdog.

He let out a sigh when he realised he only had one option. 

Walking into the Viscount's Keep, Cullen tried to ignore the people that crowded the hallways, waving and shouting in an attempt to attract his attention. Assorted nobles crowded the corridors, all vying for the attention of Seneschal Bran who had assumed the responsibilities of Viscount in the absence of any other authority in the beleaguered city. Cullen had taken to avoiding the Keep as far as possible. Whenever he entered the Keep, the nobles descended upon him like vultures, asking questions and requesting assistance for some petty reason or another. People were starving, abominations still tormenting the rural communities surrounding Kirkwall proper, and the nobles wanted Templars to come fix their bloody fences and remove rubble from their manicured lawns! He marched through the crowds without pause; Cullen did not have time for their bullshit today.

He took a steeling breath before knocking curtly on the door to Aveline’s office. When he heard her bid him entrance, he pushed the door open and attempted to walk into her office in a cool and collected manner. It embarrassed him how much Aveline unnerved him. In his short life he’d seen countless horrors, endured weeks of torture and fought waves of abominations, and yet he struggled to hold a conversation with the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall without a tremor colouring his voice.

He knew she didn't really like him, resented that the Templars had long infringed on the jurisdiction of the Guard, but she tolerated him well enough. She'd definitely warmed to him somewhat since he'd sided with Hawke at the Gallows and turned on Meredith when the extent of her madness had become apparent. While they were certainly not friends, there was a tentative respect between them and Cullen hoped that would be enough for what he was about to ask.

“Knight-Commander, this is a surprise,” Aveline said by way of a greeting, “what brings you here?” Her brow was curled, clearly a little bemused by his presence.

“I need a favour,” he said, deciding that the simple truth was probably the best approach with Aveline.

“Go on…” she prompted.

“A friend of mine has gone missing. I think she might be in trouble.” 

“You _think_ she might be in trouble? But you don’t _know_ …” 

“Her dog seems very upset.” 

There was a pause as Aveline regarded him warily. “You’ve come to ask for my help based on the emotional wellbeing of a _dog_?” 

“She’s a very intelligent dog and I trust her judgement.”

Aveline just looked at him as if he’d gone mad, eyebrows stretched to her hairline and mouth slightly agape.

“Look, I realise I’m not making much sense – last time I saw her, my friend, she was heading out across the Vinmark Mountains to Starkhaven. I know there’s been a lot of trouble with slavers in that area. I’m worried that she’s got herself in trouble.”

Aveline sighed, rubbed her hand across her forehead. “Yes, I’m aware of slaver activity in the area. My guards have been trying to keep them under control but we’re busy enough just patrolling Kirkwall. I haven’t got the resources available to keep sending patrols out to every remote, forgotten part of farflung Kirkwall.”

“Ah,” Cullen murmured, feeling a swell of disappointment at Aveline’s resigned words. “I was actually hoping you could… _lend_ me a patrol.”

“Lend?”

“I can’t just scour the Vinmark Mountains alone, I don’t know the area well enough to find her. And even if I _did_ somehow manage to find her, I’m not sure what I could do to help on my own. I can’t ask the Templars for help – this is a… _personal_ matter. It falls far outside the remit of the Chantry.”

Aveline’s face seemed to soften somewhat, although the confusion remained.

“Aveline – I know you want to clear out these slavers. I know how much it disgusts you to see people seeking to profit from chaos, to see people taking advantage of the defenceless. If you help me, we both win.”

“Who is this… friend? She must be important if you’ve come to me for help.”

Cullen opened his mouth for a moment before snapping it shut again. He didn’t really know how to explain to Aveline what Eleri meant to him. Didn’t know how to explain to _himself_ what Eleri meant to him. Instead he gave a non-committal shrug. “She saved my life – a number of times. I owe her this.”

Aveline looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. He wished he knew her better, wished he could decipher her expression and discern whether his words had had their intended affect. Aveline was his first and last option and he had no idea where he would turn should she refuse his request.

“I’ll help,” she said at length, then added hastily, “I can’t lose a patrol though.”

“Ok,” he replied a little uncertainly, “so who will help if not the Guard?” 

“Traipsing aimlessly through Sundermount looking for some lost soul trapped in the clutches of slavers?” she gave a soft chuckle. “I know _exactly_ the people who can help.” 

Her words didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. But Cullen supposed he was in no position to question Aveline further. He’d come to ask for help and she’d agreed – it was probably best not to press his luck.

He hadn’t known what to expect as he neared the East Gate of Kirkwall but he certainly hadn’t expected to see Hawke’s former companions waiting impatiently at the edge of the city. Of course he recognised them; he’d seen them trailing after the Champion on a number of occasions.

Varric gave Cullen a pointed look as he approached, clearly not particularly enamoured with him. Cullen supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Hawke was a known apostate who had only just avoided imprisonment in the Gallows thanks to her fame, and Cullen was a Templar. The two of them were natural enemies and Varric’s devotion to his friend required that he treat Cullen coolly.

Next to Varric stood an elf, with dark, cropped hair and impossibly large eyes. Cullen eyed the staff in her hand. She looked at it, looked at him and shrugged, “it's a walking stick; I have bad knees.” 

Right... _bad knees_. 

Cullen was just about to express his concern at bringing a mage along when Aveline stepped forward. “We’re all here,” she announced, “shall we go?” 

At his side, Melly gave an eager bark and started through the East Gate. Cullen nodded at the assembled band of misfits, muttered a solemn, “let’s go,” before following Melly out of the city. With her nose pressed to the ground, Melly led the group into the mountains and, hopefully, toward their wayward target.

While Cullen was glad to be setting out from Kirkwall, glad to be doing something, anything, that might bring Eleri safely home, he still felt overwhelmingly anxious. He had no idea what had happened to Eleri, no idea when she'd encountered trouble or even if she still lived. The Vinmark Mountains were vast; even with Melly's tracking skills, it seemed a near impossibility that they would ever find her. But, he supposed, Hawke's team was known for achieving the impossible. If anyone could help him find Eleri, it was them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	6. Dancing with Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleri gets herself out of trouble. 
> 
> Eleri gets very angry in this chapter; it was weird to write because Eleri is usually such a light, joyful character. But Eleri feels everything very keenly which means she feels anger just as strongly as she feels joy.

The floor was cold and hard, slick with damp and suspiciously sticky in places. Eleri was not entirely sure how she got there. She remembered dark figures lumbering out of a shroud of mist. She remembered the singing of arrows as she fired unrelentingly at her attackers. She remembered a short, sharp smack to the back of her head followed by a long blackness. Shame prickled at the back of her neck; only a fool was inattentive enough to let someone sneak up on them from behind. Human feet were heavy, their gaits clumsy and loud, and she couldn’t understand how she’d been caught unawares. Lying awkwardly on her side, limbs knotted around her torso, she had lost the feeling in her shoulder where it dug into unyielding stone, and her back ached from the twist in her spine.

For a time she dared not move, unwilling to inflict additional pain on herself by attempting to coax her stiff muscles into motion. Instead she remained still, her battered body prone on the filthy flagstones. She could see little from the floor, only enough to tell that she was in a narrow cage with nearly a dozen other elven women. The closeness was unbearable, stale breath trapped between bodies pressed tight. Eleri was used to _space_ , to wide fields of green and towering trees that stretched toward open skies.

When she finally gathered the strength to lift herself from the floor, she crawled unsteadily to the edge of the cage. Peering through air made thick and black from the oil lamps that dotted the windowless room, Eleri could just make out a line of cages across the opposite wall, all similarly crammed with elves, men and women, some young and others even younger. She wrapped her fists around the bars, squeezed them with as much force as she could muster, as if her tiny hands could tear herself free if only she wished it hard enough. Eleri did not belong in a cage.

_I am Dalish._

The room was eerily soundless. Sometimes muffled talking would drift between the cages, quiet snatches of conversation made with trembling breaths. And then of course there was crying; pitiful, pained howls that lanced through the heavy, smoke-filled air. But mostly there was silence, an impenetrable, enveloping silence that smothered and strangled. It pushed against Eleri’s eardrums, an intense pressure that built and built as if her skull was trapped in a giant’s uncompromising grip. Eleri thought that she preferred the crying.

Occasionally the wooden door at the end of the room creaked open and several hefty men walked in. They marched the length of the room, peered into cages with beady eyes and cruel sneers, before taking a selection of elves and dragging them from their prisons. Sometimes they would take a group of young, strong men, perhaps to be sold as labourers. Sometimes they would take sturdy, sharp-eyed women, most likely intended for domestic work. Most horrifying was when they took groups of small girls, so tiny, _so tiny_ , and shaking like leaves in the wind as they were filed out of the room.

Eleri had of course heard horror stories of the Tevinter slave markets, of Dalish clans decimated by greedy bandits, carted across Thedas like pack animals, forced into servitude in the cities of the Imperium. She’d been told the stories as a child. In hushed tones around the campfire she’d learnt of her people’s suffering. Proud children of the elvhenan stripped of their agency and dignity. The thought made her burn, an all-consuming rage that prickled and spat in her stomach.

_I am a keeper of the lost lore, walker of the lonely path._

The door creaked open again and two men entered the hall. They walked down the wide aisle and cast their gazes into each cage in turn. The shorter one pointed his stubby index finger at a number of elven women and the taller one, with crooked shoulders and a ruddy complexion, pulled them forward in turn. Each woman was small, with delicate features and slim limbs, and Eleri felt her stomach drop as it became apparent that the men were searching for a specific type. 

Eventually the two men came to stand in front of Eleri’s cage. The women imprisoned with Eleri bowed their heads, looked at their feet, picked at the frayed edges of their disheveled clothing, anything to distract themselves from the probing eyes of the two slavers. But Eleri stood and stared them down with an intensity usually reserved for hunting, like she was the hunter stalking her prey and not the other way around. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips and the men regarded her with mild confusion.

“That one,” said the short one, eyes leering at her hungrily, and he stepped aside to let his partner retrieve her from her cage. She went with him willingly, following him obediently from her confinement to join the rabble of shaking, crying women assembled at the centre of the room.

With their selection complete, the two men ushered the women from the hall through the wooden door into a far smaller room furnished only with a table, a few chairs, and a rack of metallic tools of undecipherable purpose that made Eleri uneasy. She’d always wondered what lay behind the wooden door; now she decided that curiosity was overrated.

The women were made to stand against the wall, the two broad-shouldered men standing beside them with weapons drawn in order to keep them in line. Another man, skinny, with beady eyes over a crooked nose, sat at the table, scratching a pen hurriedly against parchment. His nose had clearly been badly broken then set rather poorly; it had healed at a peculiar angle, resting strangely low on his face. Eleri supposed he must have been embroiled in a pretty nasty fight some years ago to acquire such a disfigurement. Of course the break could have been the result of an accident but Eleri decided that he looked eminently punchable and a bar-room brawl was therefore the most plausible explanation.

One-by-one the women were brought forward by the tall man. He leant them over the table, pulled a poker from the nearby fire, and branded each one in turn on their shoulder blade. The skinny man scrawled in a tattered ledger after each brand was applied, nodding periodically as in deep thought. The women screamed as their skin was scorched with white-hot iron. Hot and guttural, the sounds pierced Eleri’s eardrums like an astonishingly well-aimed arrow. But the screams were nothing compared to the _smell_. While her cage had smelt foul, of sweat and damp and stale urine, the stench of burnt flesh in the cramped room stung her eyes and scoured the inside of her nose. Eleri felt utterly disgusted.

_I am of the Elvhenan._

At last the skinny man nodded at her and she offered no resistance as a large, calloused hand pinched into her shoulder and dragged her toward the table. The tall man roughly pushed her down until her chest was forced painfully into the pitted, wooden surface. One hand pinned her down while the other yanked her tunic off her shoulder until golden skin was exposed to the cold, damp air. With her face pressed against the table, she heard rather than saw the man move behind her toward the fireplace. She heard the rustling as the poker was pulled from the hearth, the hissing as the hot metal was met by dank air. She could feel him looming behind her, his great, broad bulk curved over her.

_And I will never submit._

Suddenly she lashed out with her legs, bringing her heels sharply into his gut and pushing with all her might. He fell to the ground with a sharp jolt and his head hit the stone wall of the room with a shattering thump. The brand flew from his lifeless grasp and skittered across the ground with a high-pitched clatter. 

The small man hastily approached her with a twisted scowl and his dagger raised. She curled from the table and ducked under his outstretched arm, twisting around his body in a peculiar facsimile of a dance and falling onto the tall man’s limp body to pry a small knife from his belt. She turned and threw the knife forcefully across the room to lodge into the small man’s chest, feeling an odd satisfaction at the sound of sharp metal thudding into yielding flesh. He gave a surprised wheeze before falling to his knees and then down onto the floor. 

The skinny man had surged to his feet, knocking over his chair in his hurry, and was now fumbling to retrieve his own dagger from his belt. Eleri leapt from astride the tall man’s chest, retrieved the poker from the floor, and threw her shoulder into the skinny man. He stumbled back against the wall and Eleri pinned him in place with an elbow pressed to his throat and the poker held precariously close to his face.

“Drop the dagger or I’ll burn your eyes from your skull,” she spat.

His dagger clanked to the floor and Eleri noted with perverse pleasure the way his body trembled under her hold. He looked at her imploringly, his earlier arrogance wiped away by his all-consuming fear. Un-moved by his pitiable expression, she fixed him with narrowed, hate-filled eyes before raising the red-tipped poker and pushing it slowly into his chest. He let out a blood-curdling yelp as the metal rod slowly pierced his flesh but Eleri’s resolve did not relent until his screams fell silent and his body lax. Stepping back from the wall, she let the skinny man’s body fall to the ground, the poker protruding proudly from his ribcage.

Standing amidst the chaos and bloodshed that she’d wrought, Eleri slowly surveyed the room. The skinny man’s beady eyes stared blankly ahead, his crooked nose seeming to almost droop dejectedly in mourning. Blood was pooling behind the tall man’s head, dark crimson rivulets filling the crevices between the flagstones, and the dagger protruding from the short man’s chest glinted almost jauntily in the sputtering light cast from the room’s hearth. Eleri was unexpectedly reminded of the night she’d found Cullen among the mutilated bodies of his Templar brothers. The forest floor had been strewn with bodies, their faces twisted in anguish, their blood staining the blanket of autumn leaves. It had been a sickening sight, a damning indictment of how the human’s pride and folly led to pointless loss of life. Now the destruction had been at her own hands.

Eleri was a healer, was proud of her considerable skill in tending to the sick and injured, of her remarkable track record in saving those deemed beyond hope. Never before had she taken a life and she felt an odd tremor in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t quite guilt, for the human men had deserved it, had shown no reluctance in meting out suffering and pain on innocent, unarmed elves. Perhaps it was regret. Regret that she’d been forced to resort to such brutality in the face of unconscionable wickedness. Regret that she’d seen no alternative route to freedom except through murder.

The sound of shuffling feet and hushed weeping brought Eleri out of her thoughts and she turned to see a crowd of terrified women staring at her. Several pressed shuddering hands to blistered, reddened skin, eyes wide and cheeks scored with tears. Others held to each other with such ferocity that their nails tore into their stained rags.

“I’m going to get us all out of here,” Eleri announced in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “ _All_ of us.”

She bent down to pull a ring of keys from the tall man’s belt, handing it to one of the women that faced her.

“Take these – free the others,” she instructed, jerking her head toward the wooden door that led to the hall lined with cages. The woman gave a sharp nod before hurrying to free the rest of the elves.

Eleri searched the small room for any useful supplies, finding a number of elfroot potions which she passed into the grateful hands of the women who’d been unlucky enough to be branded before Eleri had fought back. She also found a few rusty daggers, which she distributed among the few elves who claimed to have any skill in fighting. Looking at the assembled group of elves, hungry and scared, with only a handful of weapons between them, Eleri was not overwhelmed with confidence. But Eleri knew that elves were hardier than they looked, knew that their bodies were forged out of centuries of hardship and oppression. Even in their sorry state, they would win their freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	7. Though I Walk through the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen attempts a daring rescue.

Cullen had lived in Kirkwall for so long that he sometimes wondered whether he could legitimately call himself Ferelden anymore. At first he had found the Kirkwall heat oppressive and uncomfortably sticky, but over time he had become accustomed to balmy summer evenings and brilliantly blue skies all year round. He preferred the fruit-pitted breads of Kirkwall to the dense, dry loaves of Ferelden. He liked the greater variety of ales that came to the port town from ships travelling along the Waking Sea. Even his tea preference had changed! Ferelden tea was typically served plain and over-brewed but Cullen had taken to drink his with an embarrassingly generous dollop of honey.

But as he watched Melly padding through the tawny undergrowth of the forests that flanked the Sundermount Pass, admiring her powerful gait and unflinching stamina, he found himself longing desperately for a mabari of his own. Cullen was reassured to find that, in this respect, he was indisputably and inescapably Fereldan.

For several days now Melly had led Cullen and his odd assortment of travelling companions through the Vinmark Mountains, nose constantly pressed to the ground and thick muscles carrying her easily over difficult terrain. That she could still follow Eleri’s scent even after several days of heavy rainfall was testament to her remarkable tracking abilities. 

They travelled at a punishing pace, stopping for only brief moments of rest before continuing their journey ever onward. They had been fortunate thus far, encountering little trouble save for a few belligerent spiders. Hawke’s companions were skilled fighters and the giant spiders had proven no match for Aveline’s blade or Varric’s crossbow. Cullen had been reluctant at first to head out in search of Eleri with such an odd assortment of cohorts, but they’d shown themselves to be competent fighters and he found himself oddly appreciating their company. He enjoyed Varric and Aveline’s bickering, persistent teasing that betrayed a deep fondness, and even Merrill’s whimsical commentary on the merriment of the tweeting birds or the beauty of the sweeping mountainscape (and it was, he had to admit, a grand vista, even when cloaked in mist and washed grey with recent rains).

The water-clogged ground pulled persistently at Cullen’s boots as he walked and the added effort of each step was fatiguing him more than he wanted to admit. At his side, Merrill walked with light, easy steps, clearly unperturbed by the clinging, clawing mud, and he found himself oddly envious of her elven agility. Occasionally she would cast him sidelong glances, scrutinising him with narrow, thoughtful eyes. Her attention unnerved him. As a Templar, surely _he_ should be keeping an eye on _her_.

After walking for a long time in silence, she finally spoke. “What happened to your Templar armour?”

He looked at her for a moment, surprised by the sudden question, then looked down to survey his simple but sturdy leather armour. Eleri had explained to him during his convalescence that she’d abandoned his Templar armour in the forest, that it had been necessary to strip him of his heavy plate-mail in order for the elves to carry him to their camp. She'd told him this with a smirk, a wink and a dirty remark about seeing him in his smallclothes. The memory of her snort of laughter and the wicked glint in her eyes made his chest constrict. He _missed_ her.

Of course he could have acquired a new set of armour upon his return to the Gallows. But there was something about the armour that didn’t feel right, not anymore. Kirkwall’s Circle had been a brutal and oppressive place and he was ashamed of how he’d unwittingly contributed to the suffering of many innocent mages by unquestionably following the orders of a madwoman. Now that the Gallows were scorched with mage-fire, and the city rent asunder by death and chaos, Cullen began to feel increasingly distant from his life in the Templars. Instead of the garb of a Templar, he had opted for hard-wearing leathers, explaining to his men that the lessened weight and added flexibility made it easier to aide in the rebuilding efforts across the city.

Not wishing to discuss his growing disenchantment with the Templar Order with a relative stranger, he only gave a small shrug and replied, “I didn’t know how long we’d be walking; I thought it wise to wear something… lighter, something fit for travel.”

Merrill nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

“It _did_ look very uncomfortable. But it was lovely and _shiny_. And I liked the swishy skirts – like poppies dancing in the wind or finches darting in the sky.”

Cullen chuckled. He always thought the skirts were a bit daft, always getting in the way when moving or fighting, and it was amusing to hear them described almost poetically.

His laughter was cut short by a violent shiver that wracked his body, starting in his toes and building as it rolled up his legs and torso. While he was grateful that it had finally stopped raining, the air was still crisp and sharp and his leather armour did little to fend off the chill.

“Cold?” she asked when she noticed how he shuddered.

“Leather may be more comfortable but it’s not the warmest.”

“Have you thought about growing a beard?” 

He looked at her with a bemused arch of his brow. “Why would I grow a beard?” 

“Because they look mighty cosy. Like little fur blankets right there on your chin.”

“Right, well – I’ll get on that right away”

“Oh good! Glad to be of assistance.”

Cullen smiled. The mage had made him wary at first, as all unknown mages did. But Aveline wouldn’t have brought her along unless she thought her dependable and she’d shown great mastery of her power when she’d fought against the giant spiders. As long as she didn’t exhibit any signs of blood magic, he was willing to trust her. 

Suddenly there came feverish barking from up ahead and Cullen peered through the fog to see Melly bristling with excitement from atop a nearby bluff. He broke into a run, his travelling companions in swift pursuit, until he reached the mabari’s side. From their vantage point atop the small hill, Cullen could just make out some sort of structure below. The building was small but it was built into the side of the mountain, grey stonewalls disappearing into earth and under brambles. He suspected that there was a far larger complex carved from within the mountain. Melly pushed her nuzzle into his leg and let out a soft whimper. So _this_ was where Eleri had been taken.

From over his shoulder, Aveline hummed thoughtfully. “I suggest a forward assault. Slavers tend not to be the most skilled fighters; it’s why they prey on the weak. We attack fast and hard.”

Cullen nodded as he unsheathed his sword. “Let’s go then.”

They encountered only a handful of slavers in the first room. Preoccupied with mending their armour and shoveling slop into their mouths, they were distracted when Cullen and his comrades burst into the room and easily dealt with. The thick, wooden door at the end of the room led into a dim corridor and then into several smaller rooms beyond. The slavers found within were poorly equipped, slow and clumsy, and they struggled to put up any real challenge. Aveline, Melly and Cullen charged at the front, with Varric and Merrill following from behind to provide covering fire with crossbow and staff.

“Just like old times,” Varric quipped with a smile as he re-loaded Bianca, though his cheer did not reach his eyes. Because of course it was not like old times, after all it was not Hawke he was following into a slaver’s den, with her vulgar laugh and her bright eyes, but Cullen, steady and stoic (and, in Varric’s opinion, a little dull). It was obvious that Hawke’s friends missed her deeply. She featured heavily in their stories and any mention of her name was accompanied with a sad droop of the eyes. Cullen could understand their grief. While he hadn’t known Hawke that well, he’d known her to be compassionate, good-humoured and an unstoppable force of nature. He respected her a great deal and he too wished she’d remained in Kirkwall. The rebuilding efforts in the city would have benefitted from her irrepressible energy and unparalleled ability in inspiring support in others.

Emerging from a complex labyrinth of corridors, the group of unlikely companions entered into a large, wide hall. Long, narrow tables stretched along the length of the room, flanked by low, crooked benches. The room was alive with activity, a dozen men and women sitting along the tables with tankards in hand, laughing around mouths filled with meat and gravy. All eyes turned to see who had dared to interrupt their revelry and Cullen tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. Now the real fighting would begin.

Tables were overturned as the slavers burst into action, grabbing swords and axes to kill the interlopers amongst their midst. Cullen ducked from a slaver’s arcing blade and brought up his own sword, pushing its tip into the juncture between shoulder and neck. The slaver gave a gurgling cry, blood spitting from her lips, before falling to the ground in a clatter of rusty armour. Cullen surged forward, feigning to the left, stepping to the right, before he slashed his sword across the unarmoured back of another slaver. 

Cullen hadn’t wielded a sword since before the mages had ambushed him in the Vinmark Mountains and while his shoulder still ached, he handled his weapon with confidence and grace. Swordplay had come easily to Cullen from an early age and it was his skill as a swordsman that had first attracted the attention of the Templar Order. He didn’t like to fight, took no pleasure in killing, but after days of worrying and walking, it felt good to finally be doing something that would bring Eleri to safety. After all, to use his sword in defence of other people was why he had become a Templar in the first place.

As he pulled his sword from a slaver’s chest with a slick squelch, Cullen turned just in time to dodge a swipe from a large, spiked mace. He stumbled back, feet slipping on flagstones made slick with blood and he let out an uncharacteristic curse as he lost his balance. He hit the floor with a sharp thud, the force of the impact pushing the breath from his lungs and knocking the sword from his hand. A slaver loomed over him, broad and stocky, grinning widely with mace in hand as Cullen pawed blindly for his misplaced weapon.

Suddenly the tip of a blade emerged through the slaver’s neck and a sickeningly wet gurgle bubbled from his throat as blood sputtered from the wound. The slaver swayed unsteadily for a moment before crumbling to the ground with a heavy thump, revealing an exhausted and blood spattered Eleri in his stead. The tunic and leathers she wore were smeared with dirt, and her face looked pale and gaunt. Her eyes flashed with anger but they were pinched and sunken with exhaustion, and her shoulders trembled from the strain of her sudden exertion. He had never seen a more harrowing or more glorious sight.

She extended her hand to him, grinning wickedly. “So is this the fourth time I’ve saved your ass?”

“Third!” he replied, a little too hasty, a little too loud, and Eleri’s grin somehow managed to widen even further.

Taking her proffered hand, Cullen lurched clumsily to his feet. Behind him, Aveline surveyed the hall, picking across the body-strewn floor in search of survivors for questioning, while Varric and Merrill offered assistance to the bedraggled elves that were filing into the room. They were in a terrible state, their bodies hunched and sharp bones pushing through sallow skin. But Cullen noticed that several were armed, their breathing laboured from recent fighting and clothes sprayed with blood, and he found it strangely uplifting that even in the face of unassailable odds, they’d united to fight for their freedom. He had no doubt that Eleri had played a key part in rallying the kidnapped elves and he couldn’t help but feel impressed at her determination, if a little disappointed that he’d been deprived of a rather heroic rescue. 

He flinched when Eleri pressed probing fingers to a shallow gash in his forearm, biting back a pained hiss. Seemingly content that the wound was only minor, she stepped back to throw him a brilliant smile. “You came for me?” she asked and it hurt him how surprised she sounded. Was it really so hard to believe that he would risk his life for her after the many times she had done the same for him?

“I did,” was his simple, firm response.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Her grin softened into something fond and tender. He’d always liked her smiles, her broad grins and curved smirks, but this small, delicate thing was his favourite. Suddenly she threw her arms around him, wrapping them tightly around his neck and pulling his body to curve around hers. She seemed smaller than the last time she’d hugged him, her grip a little weaker, and it pained him to think of what she’d endured trapped in this squalid hole in the mountainside. He was just about to bring his arms around her slender frame to pull her tightly against him when she suddenly pushed him back and stepped hastily from his reach.

“Melly!” she shouted with delight as she dropped to the ground to pull her mabari into a crushing embrace. Melly responded with equal fervour, shaking her stubby tail vigourously and licking Eleri’s face with matchless enthusiasm. Right, of course, the dog. Cullen felt a little twinge of jealousy that his moment with Eleri had been cut short by Melly’s arrival but it was quickly pushed aside when he saw Eleri’s joy at having been reunited with her dearest friend.

He studied her carefully as she petted and fussed over Melly, the way her arms shook from the effort of holding them aloft, the sickening way her shoulder blades jutted from her back. He was afraid for her. Not only because she was in poor health but because she was now alone, her Clan surely long gone. Would she try to find them? Or perhaps she would decide to remain in the city? Kirkwall was rarely a welcoming place, particularly not to lost elves. But that was a problem for another day. Today, all that mattered was that she was safe. She was safe and he was going to do everything in his power to ensure that she remained that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	8. The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleri grapples with some conflicted feelings regarding Cullen.

It took only a few days for Eleri to come to the indisputable conclusion that Kirkwall was a festering cesspool.

The air was too heavy, too still. It smothered the city, blanketing the streets in a choking haze and a stifling warmth. There was a disturbing absence of green, and what little flora there was was restricted to the soulless, manicured gardens of Hightown. And while the city was woefully devoid of trees, there was certainly no shortage of bedraggled humans. There were people _everywhere_ , shouting, sneering, huge jostling crowds that swarmed the market squares and thronged through the thoroughfares. Worst of all was the unbearable smell. It was burnt and oily in Lowtown, where the distinctive sulphuric tang of the foundries drifted all the way to the markets, but damp and musky by the docks. Of course the smell was most pungent in the alienage, where too many people were packed into too little space, where the stench of desperation and misery mixed with the smell of decay and bodily fluids.

Eleri did not want to stay. She wanted to immediately return to the mountains, wanted to return to the Sundermount Pass and continue on her journey toward Starkhaven. But her Clan had a substantial head-start now, and she feared that not even Melly’s impressive tracking abilities could lead her back home. And even if Melly _could_ lead her in the right direction, her week-long ordeal with the slavers had left her wary of travelling alone. While she’d managed to escape relatively unscathed from her first imprisonment, there was no way to guarantee that she would be able to escape again. After all, Eleri was no fighter.

So instead she remained in Kirkwall and dedicated her time to helping the elves she’d helped liberate. In the end she’d led nearly 30 elves out of the dark, dank slaver complex and into the sharp, whipping winds of the Vinmark Mountains. They’d emerged from their confinement miserable and afraid, with trembling limbs and haunted eyes. Burdened with exhaustion and weak from hunger, their journey to Kirkwall had been a slow one and Eleri had been able to offer frustratingly little in terms of medical assistance without her equipment. She’d foraged for what herbs she could, made due with what nature could provide, and managed to keep the ailing group of elves walking long enough to make their way to the relative safety of the city.

The alienage was overcrowded and dismal at the best of times and the 30 newcomers received a wary welcome at first. Having endured epidemics, a Qunari uprising, and years of poverty and oppression, the elves of Kirkwall were in a poor state to proffer assistance to strangers. But Merrill, having become a greatly respected figure among the elven community due to her strength and leadership following the mage rebellion, urged the alienage to show compassion. And so the recently freed slaves were settled into the homes of the alienage elves and Eleri found herself established as the resident healer.

Merrill welcomed Eleri into her home, clearing a space to put up a cot for her and providing a workbench where she could set up some newly acquired medical equipment. It was cramped in Merrill’s hovel, with too much furniture pressed into each humbly-sized room, but Eleri found it strangely charming. Vases of vividly coloured blooms dotted each room and bright, if slightly tattered, tapestries hung from several walls. And she was glad to have a dedicated space where she could prepare poultices and tonics. Eleri took great pleasure from her work and it made her immensely happy to see the people she’d help free slowly restored to health. The alienage, grim and filthy, was a poor substitute for the gaiety of the Dalish camp but tending to the needs of the alienage elves gave her that peculiar sense of satisfaction that comes from being useful.

It came as a surprise to Eleri when it suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t _hate_ Kirkwall. The city was a pit of suffering and poverty but it was also lively and vibrant, and there was something endearing about its crooked buildings and bawdy taverns.

Shortly after her arrival, Merrill has taken Eleri to the Hanged Man and it had quickly become one of her favourite haunts. The music was loud, the laughter easy, and Eleri was never in want of company when she visited. Merrill’s friends taught her card games and though she usually lost, she was too busy listening to Varric’s outrageous stories and Aveline’s dry humour to care. The loss of her Clan still plagued her, a niggling, cold sensation of doubt that pawed at the back of her skull, but it wasn’t long until Eleri found herself happily ensconced within a new circle of friends, a new family.

And of course there was Cullen.

He had been a constant presence since their reunion, freely offering her his support and friendship as she tried to adjust to life outside of the Dalish. He’d helped her harvest herbs for the ill and injured elves as they’d shambled through the mountains to Kirkwall. He’d helped re-arrange Merrill’s house to make space for her and her meagre possessions. He’d introduced her to the city, taking her on long strolls through the gardens of Hightown or along the waterfront of Kirkwall’s docks. At the end of long days, when she was tired and spent from seeing to the need’s of the alienage’s sick and wounded, she could rely on Cullen to bring a smile to her face with a cheerful story or an offering of honeyed buns. 

Their farewell at the edge of the Sundermount Pass was supposed to be final, probably would have been had she not been captured by the slavers. Trapped in the cold, dark confines of the slaver’s cage, she’d known that she would only win freedom through her own determination. She hadn’t expected Cullen to come for her, hadn’t expected _anyone_ to come to her aide now that her Clan was so far out of reach, but when she’d stepped into the main hall of the slaver’s base and seen him standing strong and steady among the chaos, she’d felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude, relief and – something else. Something fluttering, something bold, something pulsing and _urgent_.

Of course she would never admit her feelings, not to herself and certainly not to him. Because as fond as she’d grown for Cullen, she knew that eventually she would have to leave him, eventually she would have to say goodbye. One day she would hear word of her Clan and depart the city to be reunited with her people where she belonged. She feared that if she let her feelings grow, let them burn and swell until they consumed her, it would be impossible for her to say goodbye (and it had been hard enough to say goodbye the first time around).

But the certainty she felt that she would leave Kirkwall to rejoin her Clan did little to quell her feelings. And neither did her refusal to acknowledge those feelings. And perhaps, if she was completely honest with herself, she didn’t really _want_ to quell her feelings. Because it was _nice_ , the way her heart skittered when he smiled at her, the way her stomach did that weird flip-flop thing when his hand brushed against hers, the way he looked at her as if she was somehow remarkable. Would it really be so bad if she just…. gave in? Would it really be so terrible if she decided to stay in Kirkwall?

“You’re very quiet,” noted Merrill as her nimble fingers carded through Eleri’s hair, pulling the dark gold strands into an elegant braid that circled the crown of her head.

“I’m thinking,” replied Eleri, absent-mindedly scratching behind Melly’s ear in an attempt to sooth her faithful mabari. It was taking Merrill some time to wrangle Eleri’s difficult curls into place and though Melly sat primly beside Eleri’s chair, it was clear she was growing impatient. She pawed anxiously at the ground, occasionally huffing a sullen whine. 

“About Cullen?” asked Merrill with a small smile as she picked up a few small sprigs of posies and pinned them into the braid.

“Cullen? Of course not!” Eleri said with a bright laugh that she hoped sounded nonchalant. “Why would you think that?”

“You pulled an odd, little frowny face when I told you that Cullen was invited to tonight’s shindig and you’ve been quiet ever since. Do you not want him to come?”

“No, of course he should come!” Eleri insisted earnestly. Cullen had been invited to the alienage’s All Soul’s Day celebration as thanks for his assistance over the past month and Eleri thought him fully deserving of the honour. Not only had he helped free the imprisoned elves from the slavers but he had also visited the alienage regularly since they’d settled in Kirkwall to deliver whatever medical supplies he could get his hands on. He’d even brought a unit of Templars to make long-overdue repairs to walls and roofs. No, she could not begrudge him the elves’ thanks.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s just that I….”

She let her sentence trail off, stopped herself from confessing something that she would not be able to take back once she’d spoken it aloud. Merrill’s hands stilled, coming to rest on Eleri’s shoulders as she waited patiently for her to finish her line of thought. She could lie to Merrill, of course, blame her uncharacteristic reticence on illness or some other spurious reason. But she liked Merrill a great deal and there was nothing to be gained from trying to deceive her friend. And besides, Eleri had never been a good liar; it simply wasn’t a skill she had had much need to practice.

“I’ve been thinking,” Eleri began cautiously, “and it’s possible that I might, _perhaps_ , maybe…”

“Care for Cullen?”

There was a pause as Eleri took in a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I think I do,” she admitted, voice pitching upward as if in question.

“Ooh!” Merrill gasped with an excited flutter of her hands. “Well isn’t that splendid?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she replied, the corners of her lips tugging into a cautiously contented smile. Because there certainly _was_ something splendid about how she felt, something glorious about finding someone who made her stomach flip and her skin tingle.

“It’s clear that he likes you… a great deal.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh, her shoulders drooping and eyes falling to stare intently at the hand in her lap where it toyed with the folds of her dress.

“And that’s a problem?” asked Merrill, noting Eleri’s nervous fidgeting. 

“No, it’s just – I’m Dalish. I’m Dalish and one day I will find my Clan and leave Kirkwall to rejoin then. And then I’ll have to leave Cullen and it will… it will _hurt_.”

Merrill hummed thoughtfully as she stepped around Eleri’s chair to kneel at her feet. She looked at her intently, leaning forward and holding her gaze as if she was about to impart some secret. “Maybe you find your Clan or maybe you don’t. Maybe you leave Kirkwall or perhaps you decide to stay. So much is uncertain in life; you can’t be afraid to start things because you fear how they will end.”

Merrill was right of course. Maybe she would leave him, maybe it would hurt, but maybe it would be worth it.

She smiled, slowly, tentatively. “How did you become so wise, Merrill?” 

“Oh I don’t know – I think it’s because people like to talk to me, and I like to listen.”

Eleri leant forward and grasped Merrill’s hands in her own, gave them a squeeze in silent thanks. Merrill had been indispensable in helping Eleri adjust to Kirkwall, knew better than anyone the peculiar difficulties faced by a Dalish elf trying to adjust to alienage living. Eleri had grown immensely fond of her.

Suddenly Melly gave a low, short growl, too hungry to care about interrupting a tender moment between friends. Merrill chuckled as she pulled her hands free from Eleri’s grasp in order to give Melly an enthusiastic scratch behind both ears.

“Hungry, girl?” asked Merrill. 

Melly cocked her head to the side and gave her a piercing glare, clearly not deeming the ridiculous question worthy of an answer.

Eleri chuckled at her mabari’s testy expression. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

Standing from her chair, she paused for a moment to stroke the creases out of her dress. A small mirror hung crookedly on the wall in Merrill’s living room and Eleri glanced briefly at her reflection as she headed toward the front door. She let a small, pleased smirk slide into place; she did look _rather_ fantastic. She wore a dress of a pale, silvery violet that almost seemed to shine in contrast with her tanned skin. The fabric was far too thin for so late in the year and Eleri would undoubtedly be cold later in the evening but she’d thought the tiered skirts fun and she liked the way it swished around her legs. Thick silver bangles jangled at her wrists, complimenting the metallic sheen of her dress. They made a pleasing noise when she moved and she couldn’t wait to hear how they chimed when she danced.

“Eleri!” Merrill called just as she reached the door. Eleri stopped to look over her shoulder, hand poised at the doorknob.

“He’s a good man, and kind,” Merrill called, grinning broadly as she imparted her final words of wisdom, “… and he has a lovely bottom.”

Eleri laughed, bright and brash. Yes, his bum _was_ rather shapely; Merrill was wise indeed.

When she emerged from Merrill’s home the alienage was already bustling with activity. Several elves were laying long wooden tables with seasonal foods while others hung colourful banners along store-fronts and among the boughs of the great vhenadahl. The significance of All Soul’s Day was somewhat lost on Eleri, the Dalish observing their own calendar of festival days, but she was excited for the night’s festivities nonetheless. While the humans spent the holiday in somber remembrance of the dead, the elves preferred to commemorate their dearly departed through costumed parties and lively dancing. Eleri thought this an eminently more sensible way to remember the dead. Why linger on the grief of loss when one could celebrate the glory of a life well-lived?

As the sun dipped behind the tall, crumbling buildings of Lowtown, more and more elves began to crowd the square at the heart of the alienage. Friends and family exchanged stories and jokes while helping themselves to steaming bowls of stew and skewers of roasted vegetables. Small children screamed with laughter as they dove between the table-legs, eagerly stuffing handfuls of almond biscuits into their pockets before disappearing into sidestreets to devour their spoils away from the reproachful frowns of their parents.

When the last orange glow of daylight had retreated, a small band began to play a jaunty, jumping tune. A tattered drum kept a fast, steady beat while a pair of energetic fiddles carried a bright, lilting melody. Eleri didn’t recognise the song but it was clearly a favourite among the alienage elves who gave a hearty cheer before grabbing their friends and family and breaking out into a reel that filled the entire square. Despite her unfamiliarity with the music, Eleri had a natural grace and sense of rythem, and she soon found herself at the centre of the throng of revellers. As she tapped her feet and arced her arms in time with the music, all worries of her Clan or concerns for her future in Kirkwall melted away until all that remained was the pulse of the music pounding against her eardrums.

So lost was she to her frenzied dancing that she almost didn’t spot Cullen awkwardly loitering at the top of stairs leading into the alienage. Even though he’d spent countless hours at the alienage over the past few weeks, he still seemed immensely uncomfortable being there. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised; he was, after all, the loan shemlen in a community of elves. But Eleri thought he seemed uncomfortable _everywhere_ in Kirkwall. Whether strolling through Hightown, the hectic markets of Lowtown, or even the rare occasions she visited him in the Gallows, he never seemed at ease. Maybe he had suited Kirkwall once, even felt at home there, but now he just didn’t seem to fit. 

Light feet carried Eleri swiftly across the square as she pushed her way through the crowds toward Cullen. He gave her an odd little wave as she hopped up the stairs then fell deathly still when she greeted him with a small kiss to the cheek. It was perhaps a slightly too fervent greeting and she noted with amusement the rosy flush that crept across his cheeks.

“You look… stunning,” he mumbled between softly smiling lips.

She returned his smile with one of her own, a little lop-sided thanks to her copious consumption of alcohol. Stepping forward, she stroked a small hand along his lapel, tracing the curve of the embroidery on his smart, dark blue waistcoat. “You look… not bad yourself.”

“Not bad?” he cried in feigned offence, chuckling softly.

“Well it’s a vast improvement from when you were convalescing in my tent, all pale and sweaty.” She stepped back, tapped her chin ponderously with her index finger as she pointedly raked her eyes over him from head to toe, a flirtatious smirk playing upon her lips. “Yes, a _vast_ improvement.”

His blush intensified under her scrutiny but his mouth curved into a wicked smile to match her own. Something in his bearing shifted and his stance relaxed into something comfortable and confident, hands resting on his hips. With him looming over her, she suddenly realised how _broad_ he was, how his simple white shirt hugged the bulge of his arms and his smart vest pulled over his muscles.

“Why Eleri, is it possible that you’re… _ogling_ me?” he asked with an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

She let out a delighted laugh. “Absolutely.”

He gave a considered nod then shrugged casually, “right, ok – carry on I suppose.”

Her laugh was even brighter then, and he laughed with her, brash and unguarded. She loved the sound of his laugh, loved even more when she was the one to coax it from him.

“Come – dance with me!” she called, entwining her fingers with his and pulling him toward the square. 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he warned as he stumbled after her down the stairs.

“It doesn’t matter!”

She pulled him to the middle of the crowd, only letting go of his hands when they were too deeply enclosed in the throng of dancers for him to make an easy escape. With the music wrapping around them, Eleri fell once more into the easy rythem of the dance, body swaying and feet tapping while Cullen tried to keep up with stiff, uneasy movements. Cullen wasn’t a bad dancer; he could keep time with the music easily enough and he moved his limbs with the control and grace that one would expect from a naturally proficient swordsman. But he was too used to the stuffy, formal dances of Fereldan, too used to dancing according to a proscribed set of moves. The fluid, free dancing of the elves was clearly somewhat overwhelming for him.

“Here, relax,” Eleri said, stepping closer to his chest and lowering her hands to his hips. With a firm grip she directed his movements, leading his hips to sway in time with the music and her own languid shimmying. Cullen was rarely the one to initiate physical contact and so Eleri was pleasantly surprised when he slowly skimmed his hands along her arms, gradually bringing them to rest on her lower back. With a gentle tug, he brought her body closer.

“Good,” she cooed softly, relishing the warm press of his hips against hers, “much better.”

Throngs of elves pressed against them on all sides and the air was filled with a deafening noise: the pounding of drums, the banging of feet, singing tinged with drunken slurring. But Eleri didn’t notice any of this, didn’t feel the jostling of wayward limbs or hear the raucous noise, all she felt was Cullen and his warmth.

She couldn’t remember when their bodies got so close, or when Cullen started to bend down, curving his body over hers. But suddenly his face was so tantalisingly near that she could feel his breath on her skin. When his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, Eleri was suddenly struck by how keenly, how _desperately_ , she wanted to taste him. But then he stopped, and pulled back, and it took concerted effort for Eleri not to let out a disappointed groan.

Well, bugger.

Still wrapped in his arms, still pressed bodily against him, Eleri couldn’t help but feel a little confused. His face still hovered above hers but he made no further move to kiss her. Instead they stood for some time among the dancers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.

“Cullen?” she prompted gently with a breathy sigh.

A little tremble wracked through his body and he gave a frustrated little groan. Taking her arm in a punishing grip, he turned and led her from the square, pushing hastily through the dancing throngs and walking with wide, determined strides. When they emerged from the crowd, he pulled her up the stairs leading from the alienage to a small terrace overlooking the vhenadahl.

“Cullen, what’s going on?” she asked when they came to a sudden stop.

He turned and drew her into him, bringing her chest flush against his with a strong hand pressed to the small of her back. His other hand cupped her cheek, calloused fingertips gently tracing the lines of her vallaslin as they curved along her cheekbone and fanned over her temple.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” he breathed, and his voice was so rough it caused a delightful little flip-flop in her stomach, “it was just too noisy, too crowded, and I wanted to make sure I savoured this.”

He brought his lips down upon hers with unexpected force and Eleri couldn’t help but loose a startled gasp. His lips were soft and warm but they pushed against hers with an urgent intensity, as if he thought this moment fleeting and he wanted to sear the memory of her upon his skin. His hand still stroked her cheek, soft circles that skipped across bronzed skin, leaving tingling trails in their wake.

Eager to deepen the kiss, she grabbed the lapels of his waistcoat with both hands and gave a firm tug to bring him even closer, to angle his head just so against hers. He chuckled softly at her enthusiasm and she could feel the curve of his smile when her tongue gave a tentative swipe over his bottom lip.

His hand at the small of her back seemed to burn her skin even through the fabric of her dress while his other hand caressed tenderly across her cheekbone before burying itself into the braid at the back of her head, destroying all of Merrill’s fine handiwork.

Ah well, Merrill would understand.

When he finally pulled back, Eleri was a little breathless, her chest rising and falling erratically as she desperately drank in the sharp, evening air. Cullen stayed close, his forehead pressed against hers and a small, pleased smile sitting on his mouth. Safe in the circle of his arms, her body held flush against the warmth of his chest, Eleri thought that perhaps she had been a bit hasty in passing judgement on the City of Chains. Sure Kirkwall was a poverty-stricken shithole, sure it had marauding criminals and testy Templars and sneering, scornful Shemlens. But right now she had Cullen’s hands on her skin, and the memory of his touch tingling on her lips, and perhaps Kirkwall wasn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	9. Late Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleri and Cullen partake of sexy fun times. Rating now raised to M for smut.

Eleri strode across the courtyard in long, quick steps, pointedly ignoring the wary stares cast her way by the Templars. Standing still and straight, only their eyes followed her as she walked, reminding her of the cold, stern statues she had once encountered when her Clan had travelled through the Emerald Graves many years ago. Eleri had made several visits to the Gallows in her months in Kirkwall, always as a last resort when Cullen was too busy to pull himself away from his office, but her presence there still drew attention. The Templars weren’t openly hostile, just – cautious, as if her intrusion somehow unnerved them. Even the Templars who knew her, the ones who had helped carry out repairs in the alienage, watched her closely with knitted brows and lips pulled thin. She couldn’t really begrudge them their suspicions; she was, after all, a stranger in a city that had endured more than its fair share of struggle and bloodshed.

Her pace quickened as she reached the stairwell to the north of the courtyard, her excitement growing at the prospect of seeing Cullen once more. It had been too long, _too long_ , since she had last seen him, and Eleri was puzzled to think of what could possibly be detaining him for such an extensive length of time. Cullen had always been busy, a desperate man trying to keep Kirkwall together through sheer force of will, but the past few weeks had been exceptionally hectic and she and Cullen had had precious little time together.

A frustrated growl escaped between pursed lips and she cringed as the sound bounced between the stark walls of the Gallows hallway, echoing down the corridor until it seemed deafeningly loud. While there were no Templars in her immediate vicinity to witness her little angry outburst, she quickened her pace nonetheless, keen to avoid as much attention as far as possible. 

When she finally reached Cullen’s office she knocked curtly on the door and paused for only the briefest of moments before pushing her way inside without waiting for an answer. As expected, Cullen was too busy working to notice her entrance; shoulders hunched as he sat behind his desk in a large, towering chair that made him appear uncharacteristically small.

“Cullen?” she called tentatively from the doorway, suddenly feeling a flash of guilt at the sight of him bent over a chaotic pile of papers. Perhaps he really did have important work requiring urgent, unwavering attention.

His head jerked up at the sound of his name and any anxiety that she may have felt for having interrupted him melted away at the sight of his smile, that wonderful, _tender_ smile that Eleri was sure he saved just for her. She smiled at him in return, though it was more impish than tender, lips curled wolfishly to reveal a toothy, teasing smirk. Clearly intrigued by her playful expression, Cullen watched her closely as she ambled across his office and along the side of his desk, fingers trailing across the polished mahogany.

“Busy?” she asked when she was close enough to lean over his shoulder at the raft of reports under his ink-smeared fingers.

He gave a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head wearily. “I’m up to my ears with requisition orders, the Starkhaven Templars are requesting my assistance and now, on top of everything else, the _Seekers_ are coming to Kirkwall. Apparently they’re looking for information on the Champion and for some reason they’re under the misguided impression that I might know where she’s gone.”

He jabbed at the pile of paper as if to accentuate his frustration and her smile faltered at his words, disappointed to hear that her cunning plan to drag him from the Gallows and into the fresh air was perhaps irretrievably scuppered. “So another late night?”

“I’m afraid so,” he answered matter-of-factly and the last vestiges of her smile were chased away to make room for a disappointed frown. At least he had the good manners to look abashed.

“Cullen,” she said, clipped and professional, “as your doctor, I must point out that rest and relaxation is _essential_ to maintaining optimal cognitive capacity. Trying to work in your exhausted state will only lead to mistakes and that is of benefit to no one.” 

She gave him her most forceful glare, the one that usually made even the most recalcitrant of patients cooperate.

“You’re right,” he conceded with a shrug, though Eleri was disappointed to note that he made no move to clear away his papers or rise from his desk, “but I just _have_ to finish off these reports tonight. I really am sorry.”

Having failed to sway him with her authoritative, doctor persona, Eleri decided that a different tactic was required if she was to tear Cullen away from his work. With a dirty smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, she sidled in front of him and lifted herself to perch her bum on the edge of his desk. “Oh… what a shame,” she purred, leaning back and rolling her shoulders to push out her chest, “what a _terrible_ shame.”

“Eleri, I know what you’re trying to do” he warned as he fixed her with a resolute stare, though there was no genuine anger in his tone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said airily, crossing her legs and bringing her toes to tickle against the side of his knee. It was an innocent enough gesture, and only the barest of touches, but it was enough to make Cullen twitch and Eleri’s smirk grew wider.

“You’re trying to… to distract me,” he said, swallowing thickly as her toes stroked against his knee in gentle, small circles.

“ _Trying_ to distract you?” she asked as her toes journeyed along the outside of his thigh, tracing lazy, curling lines toward his hips.

He nodded, raising his hand to scratch at the back of his neck in a familiar nervous gesture that Eleri had come to find immensely endearing.

“But not _succeeding_?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re not even…” She shrugged out of her jacket and let it fall to the tabletop, revealing bare shoulders and an enticingly low neckline. “… A _little_ distracted.”

“Maker’s breath,” he breathed, eyes transfixed by her hands as they stroked down her chest to smooth out the creases from her dress.

Suddenly he grabbed her leg where it teased his thigh and gave it a tug until she was pulled haphazardly from the table and into his lap. She let out a surprised yelp that was quickly silenced when he took her face between his hands and pushed his mouth against hers in a punishing kiss. She smiled against his lips, revelling in the warmth of him, the taste and _feel_ of him. Her hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fists balled into the fabric to hold him close.

When he finally pulled back, hot breath still ghosting over her lips, her smirk grew from teasing to downright smug. “Well,” she drawled as she uncurled her fists and let them wander down his chest, sliding across the rough fabric of his shirt, “since you have work to do, I guess I better… leave you to it.” She gave a tiny roll of her hips to punctuate her point, relished in the stifled moan that escaped between clenched lips.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, hands still cupping her cheeks, and he leant in for another demanding kiss. The first kiss had been forceful but controlled whereas this one was clumsy and hot, open mouths rushing together in a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth. His hands fell from her face, dropping gently to her shoulders then brushing downward, pressing against her flesh through the fabric of her dress until they came to rest on the swell of her hips.

He trailed a path of kisses across her face, lips brushing across her vallaslin as he whispered along the lines that swept across her cheekbone. She shuddered when he pressed a kiss against her temple, a slow, quivering thing that trembled down her spine to her curling toes. A soft, needy moan slipped from her lips and she was surprised at how vulgar is sounded as it reverberated around the sparsely furnished room. She could feel him smile against her skin, clearly pleased to have elicited such a reaction from her.

That smug bastard.

His grip was fierce enough to be almost painful as he pulled her hips flush against his and he bucked involuntarily as she squirmed in his lap. Little frissons of pleasure skittered across her skin as he rocked against her and the pleasantly building pressure at the cleft of her thighs made her whimper eagerly. The sound was muffled by the hungry press of his mouth against hers as he drew her breath away with wet, open-mouthed kisses. 

She could feel him even through the layers of fabric between them, hard and willing, and now it was _his_ time to shudder as she pitched her hips forward to press against him. The friction between their flush bodies made her quiver in frantic little spurts and Eleri was suddenly immensely frustrated at the realisation that they were both wearing far too many clothes. 

Eleri had always had nimble fingers, fingers that could effortlessly thread a needle or delicately strum a harp, and she made quick work of the buttons at the front of his shirt. Pressed together in a chair designed for only one, it took a great deal of tugging and contorting for Cullen to be freed of his shirt and leather jerkin and Eleri couldn’t help but giggle as Cullen huffed impatiently at the offending garments. She pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, a tender, gentle thing meant to soothe, and he smiled at her with such earnest fondness that Eleri felt her heart do that weird little flip-flop that seemed to be occurring with increasing frequency since meeting Cullen.

Finally freed of his shirt, Eleri let her hands drift down his bare chest, fingers dancing across the flat planes of strong, lean muscle. She started off gently, palms skimming lightly, almost shyly, over his skin, but soon she touched him with firm, rough strokes, fingertips pressing firmly into flesh as she scattered feathery kisses along his collarbone to the hollow of his throat.

One of his hands swept down her torso, disappearing under the fabric of her dress that pooled around her waist. She sucked in a sharp breath as his fingertips stroked down her inner thigh then moaned loud and unguarded as thick, calloused fingers pushed aside the fabric of her smallclothes and between her wet, yielding folds, rough skin pulling deliciously against soft flesh. She writhed in his lap, grinding into his hand to deepen the sensations. When he curled his finger inside of her, the moans turned into embarrassingly needy mewls and she buried her head in the side of his neck to muffle the noise.

Her whole body tingled as a blossoming heat began to spread from between her thighs. She knew she wouldn’t last long with Cullen’s thick, strong fingers strumming inside of her and although it was supremely tempting to let Cullen coax her over the edge with only his hand, she still desperately wanted to feel him inside of her, feel his hips pounding against her own and his body shivering with pleasure.

He frowned with confusion when she stilled his hand but she pushed the worry away with a gentle kiss between his brows before turning her attention to divulging Cullen of his remaining articles of clothing. Her fingers were less nimble as they tugged insistently at the laces of his trousers and she was relieved when Cullen came to her aid, pulling with short, sharp tugs until the laces came undone. He wriggled in his seat to help her as she pulled his trousers and smallclothes down over his hips to bunch at his knees, then took her hands in an endearingly chivalrous gesture to guide her back into his lap.

She shimmied forward until their torsos were flush then rolled her hips until he was sheathed inside of her. Her gasp was drowned out by the sound of his pleasured groan and for a fleeting moment they simply sat there, still and enjoined, with their laboured breaths mingling between them. Then he gave a pump of his hips and a strangled moan was pulled from her throat as they started to move, slow and steady, hips pounding and dipping in unison.

He buried his hands in the mass of blonde at the back of her head and pulled her in for another searing kiss. Their moans were stifled by urgent lips and roving tongues, and instead the room was filled with the sound of snapping hips and the smack of skin against skin. A wild, thrumming heat coiled through her limbs, growing in intensity until every nerve ending throbbed with crackling fire.

She gripped fiercely to his shoulders when she came, his body a sturdy anchor keeping her in place as her body spasmed and shook. Cullen was soon to follow and his satisfied moans rattled the air as he trembled beneath her. He wrapped his arms around her as her body juddered with the last dwindling tremors, peppering the crown of her head with tiny, breathy kisses. Resting her forehead against his shoulder, she took in a deep, steadying breath and let his scent, the smell of sweat, leather and lemon oil, wash over her. It was a pleasant smell, sharp and alive, and she found it oddly comforting.

Despite her Clan’s constant wondering, Eleri had always known what home was. Home was the smell of halla, the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of a forest older than language, the warmth of the campfire as it brushed coppery waves across her skin. But now, enclosed in Cullen’s arms, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps home was rainy winters and stone walls, watered-down beer and bustling crowds. Perhaps home was rich laughter, and shy smiles, and eyes that always seemed to be seeing her for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	10. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill - because this is Kirkwall and disaster is pretty much inevitable.

“I shit you not!” Varric insisted, hands spread wide in an appeal to his audience, “that stuff was _so_ strong, I woke up _two days later_ in some shithole alleyway in Lowtown – no idea how I got there!”

The crowd in the Hanged Man laughed, loud and raucous, and Varric’s grin widened, bringing colour to his cheeks and crinkles to his eyes. There was nothing quite as satisfying as the perfect delivery, knowing that you had your audience captivated, hanging on every word. Varric knew better than anyone that there was a power to good storytelling, to be able to manipulate a whole room full of people with just some carefully chosen words.

Though only Eleri and Merrill sat with him at the small table by the fire, the whole of the Hanged Man was listening as he recounted his anecdotes and he pitched his voice loud so that it would carry across the large, open room.

Merrill regarded him with pleased, wide eyes, her face open with curiosity and delight. She wasn’t the same naïve, sheltered girl that he had met nearly ten years ago (Kirkwall was not a forgiving place for those overburdened with kindness), but she still retained her love of storytelling, the more outrageous or whimsical the better.

Eleri watched him with a touch more scepticism, one brow arched sharply, but her eyes were lit with humour and her lips were curled into a crooked smile. If she didn’t believe his story, she was too entertained to call him out.

“And then, just to make things worse,” Varric continued, “because this is Kirkwall and things can _always_ get worse – Miss Fisher’s stupid mutt suddenly appeared.” Sympathetic groans rippled through the tavern; Miss Fisher’s belligerent pet was infamous to those unlucky enough to have met him. “So obviously I just want to go home and drink a shit-ton of coffee but instead the fucker lunged at me, sank its teeth into my ankle and wouldn’t let go! In the end I had to bash his head in with the butt of my crossbow; you know, stun it.”

Merrill gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth. “You didn’t, Varric! That poor little creature!”

“Pfft,” Varric responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, “he was fine. But Miss Fisher reported me to Aveline for canine assault!”

Eleri snorted. “And did the Guard-Captain haul you in?”

“Nah – the furry fucker had bit her too!”

Another laugh ripped through the tavern and this time Varric couldn’t help but let out a cheerful bellow of his own. The memory of Aveline’s expression when he’d appeared in her office, trouser cuff ripped to shreds and face contorted with the agony of the worst hangover of his life, never failed to delight him. As did the memory of Isabela’s wicked cackle when she’d burst into his room with a bottle of a suspiciously luminous green liquid. And of course nothing beat the memory of Hawke bounding into the Hanged Man the morning after with a steaming pot of Orana’s spiced coffee in hand. He would have found her unremitting chirpiness immensely irritating had he not been so grateful for her offering of sweet, caffeinated relief.

His smile faltered, his bright, lyrical chuckles dulled by a twinge of sadness. All the times Isabela had got him into trouble; all the times Hawke had got him out of it. The stories were harder to tell when the memories just reminded him of what he had lost. He shook his head and lifted his tankard to his lips, quickly drowning his nostalgia with watered-down ale. Varric was not one to dwell on loss.

Grief had pulled on his features for only the briefest of moments but it had been enough for Eleri’s sharp elven eyes to notice the pained droop to his eyes, the downward twitch of his lips. She knew that face, recognised the same shadow that marred her own features when she caught her reflection.

It had come as a great surprise to Eleri that she’d been able to make a home for herself in Kirkwall, that she’d managed to ensconce herself within a circle of friends, found a purpose as a doctor to the alienage elves. But her contentment couldn’t completely banish the lingering doubt she felt that she didn’t _quite_ belong.

She missed things that were green. She missed the feel of mud squelching between her toes. She missed the pattering of rain on the outside of her tent, lulling her to sleep with its monotonous melody. Most of all she missed the wind whistling through dense woodland. The air in Kirkwall always felt so stifled, so _stale_. And of course the city was hardly welcoming for an elf such as she. The looks, the insults. Any visit to the Lowtown markets was almost always accompanied by shemlen curses and disdainful glares.

From the seat beside her Merrill gave her shoulder a gentle nudge, pulling her from her thoughts and back to the Hanged Man. “Everything ok?” she asked, face pinched with concern.

“I’m great!” insisted Eleri with a forced brightness that made Merrill frown, “I’m just – out of beer!” She made a show of holding her tankard aloft, shaking it in the air while pulling her face into an exaggerated frown.

“This round’s on me!” she announced to her companions as she rose hastily from her seat, stumbling back a few steps as her feet caught on the chair legs. She was clearly a little tipsier than originally believed; perhaps another round was not the _wisest_ idea. She could feel Merrill’s eyes on her back as she pushed through the crowded room, both touched at Merrill’s concern for her and grateful that she had not tried to pry.

After giving her order to Corff, she leant against the bar, drumming her toes lightly against the floorboards in a syncopated rythem as she waited. When Corff deposited three fresh tankards on the bar, Eleri felt herself roughly pushed aside and watched in dismay as a large, broad man sidled up to the bar and grabbed ahold of her beers in thick, weathered hands.

“Excuse me!” she said forcefully, settling her balance and pulling herself to her full height. She’d noticed city elves were quick to withdraw, clearly trained from an early age that quiet retreat was the surest way to avoid confrontation and potential injury. But Eleri was no cowering city elf; Eleri was Dalish, and she did not give in to bullies.

“What?” was the man’s gruff reply.

“Those are my beers.”

“Fuck off, they’re mine!”

“ _No_ , they’re not!” she said, raising the volume of her voice, “I paid for them, which means they’re mine. Now _bugger off_!”

He slowly turned to face her, towering over her tiny frame.

“Want to say that again, _knife-ears_?” he challenged with a sneer, glaring down at her with his swarthy, piggish face.

She stepped forward, craning her head back to meet his eyes with an angry glare of her own. “Yeah – I said _bugger off_ – take your filthy, oafish paws off my beers and return to whatever dank shithole you came from.”

His ruddy face somehow managed to burn even redder, lips curling back from his teeth into a feral snarl. Her Keeper had warned her time and time again to keep her anger in check should it get her in serious trouble some day; staring up at the twisted, angry features of the large shemlen in front of her, Eleri concluded that perhaps her Keeper had been right.

She ducked just in time to avoid the fist sent flying toward her face then danced out of his reach in case he decided to throw a second punch. He lurched forward a few steps from the force of his poorly aimed blow before righting himself and turning to stalk after her. She stood her ground as he strode toward her, smiling smugly when she felt the air stir from behind, Varric and Merrill coming forward to flank her on each side. As the broad man neared her, Varric raised Bianca until she was trained squarely on the man’s head.

“Get out,” instructed Varric calmly. “We don’t want any trouble but we’re more than capable of meting it out.”

Clearly deciding that one mouthy elf wasn’t worth getting a crossbow bolt to the face, the man spat at the floor between Eleri’s feet and turned to leave the tavern.

The door smacked shut with a sharp bang and Eleri released the breath she didn’t realise she had been holding. It wasn’t that she doubted that her friends would come to her aid – well, actually, she _had_ doubted for a moment. Because as fond as she was of Varric and Merrill, they had only known her for a few months, and she _had_ been the one foolish enough to goad the man into an altercation.

“Thank you,” she said as she raised each hand to clap her companions enthusiastically on the back, “I appreciate the help.” She turned to give them a wolfish grin, determined not to let one drunken idiot ruin what had been a perfectly lovely evening so far. “Now I do believe I still owe you both a drink – and this time I’m getting the _good stuff_.”

Varric gave a hearty chuckle, “well that’s good enough for me!”

Eleri’s second trip to the bar was far more successful than the first and she returned to their table with three frothy tankards of something dark and rich. It still tasted like shit but it wasn’t as watered down as the normal swill Corff served and Varric and Merrill accepted the proffered drinks as adequate thanks for their assistance.

The rest of the evening was spent in far more sedate conversation. Varric still told his stories but he kept his voice pitched soft and low so that only his immediate companions could hear. These were Eleri’s favourite of his stories. Stories about Hawke and Isabela and Fenris and other friends that she had never met but to whom she felt strangely close thanks to his stories. Stories that were bawdy and lively but also bittersweet and sentimental. These were not stories for public consumption but stories to be shared between friends. Eleri felt honoured to be privy to such intimate tales.

As the night stretched on, Eleri found herself growing a little impatient. Cullen had told her that he would come join her at the Hanged Man once he was done with his work. But it was now well passed midnight and he was yet to show his face. She couldn’t help but let slip a small sigh at the thought of him still cooped up behind his desk, head bowed and brows furrowed over a seemingly endless array of reports.

“Am I boring you, sweetcheeks?” asked Varric, his words drawling slightly from drink.

She jumped a little at the question, bowing her head to avoid Merrill and Varric’s amused smirks. She hadn’t realised she’d stopped listening and she withered somewhat under Merrill and Varric’s scrutiny. Her cheeks flushed a little with embarrassment, a little ashamed to think that she had let thoughts of Cullen distract her from her friends’ conversation.

“Sorry, Varric, no. I was just – worried. Cullen was supposed to meet me here and he’s… well he’s not here.”

“What a terrible shame,” Varric said, voice dripping with sarcasm. It was clear that Varric wasn’t particularly enamoured with Cullen. Sure he put up with his company with good enough humour but there was little genuine fondness there. Varric thought Cullen nice enough but he was severe and a bit… _dull_ for Varric’s tastes.

“I should go,” Eleri said as she rose from her seat, tugging at her jacket to pull it straight. Melly made to follow her, unfurling her short legs from under her hefty body and pulling herself stiffly to her feet.

“No, Melly,” Eleri commanded, “you should stay here with Merrill.” Melly gave a disapproving whine, low and petulant. “I’m sorry girl but you make the Templars nervous. I think it’s best you steer clear of the Gallows.” Melly gave a resigned huff and plonked her body gracelessly on the floor at Merrill’s feet. Eleri threw her faithful friend an apologetic smile before waving goodbye to her friends and hurrying from the tavern.

The air was cold and damp when Eleri stepped out into the enveloping darkness of Lowtown. It had been dry when Eleri first entered the Hanged Man but fat globules of rain now fell from the sky, quickly soaking through her hair and thick woolen cloak. It must have been raining for some time because the ground was slick with water, wide rivulets that snaked through the streets. The meager light from the few lamps that dotted Lowtown danced across the puddles, leaving swirling patterns across the paving stones.

Pulling her hood over her head, Eleri darted into the street, shoulders hunched over to brace against the punishing wind that whipped between the cramped buildings of Lowtown. Swift feet carried her briskly toward the docks, skipping across the larger puddles in a vain attempt to keep her feet as dry as possible. If only the Gallows weren’t so inconveniently located; she was going to be drenched by the time she reached Cullen’s office.

There was some movement to Eleri’s left as she turned a corner into a small courtyard, a figure slinking behind the boxes lining the square. She paid it no mind at first, probably another unfortunate soul trying to escape the angry downpour just like her, but when they fell into step behind her, she felt a knot of panic settle in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t turn but hurried her pace, hoping to reach the boat that would take her across the bay to the Gallows before her pursuer caught up with her.

Eleri knew she was in trouble when several more figures emerged from the shadows slightly ahead of her. She stopped, mouthed a silent curse when she saw that the path ahead was blocked, and turned to finally confront whoever had been following her. The trickle of panic grew into a full-fledged torrent when she realised that it was the man from the Hanged Man, the same broad-shouldered shemlen she had unwisely aggravated at the bar.

“Well look what we have here?” the broad man sneered, “you must be lost, knife-ears, the alienage is _that_ way. Your type doesn’t belong here.”

“Yes, I get it, I’m a slanty-eared elf and you disapprove of my existence,” she retorted with a shrug, hoping that if she kept her anger in check, he would get bored and leave her alone. “Now if you’re done insulting me, I’ll just… be on my way.”

She turned to carry on toward the Gallows but the two men remained where they stood, preventing her onward passage.

“You embarrassed me,” came the broad man from over her shoulder, “mouthy knife-ears need putting back in their place. We can’t let your kind get away with gobbing off without punishment.”

Her body stiffened. She was unarmed, her friends too far away to aid her again. Perhaps this time she really was in trouble.

Suddenly the broad man surged forward, pinning her arms with his own and holding her back against his chest. Effectively trapped, one of the two other men stepped forward and punched her squarely in the stomach. She gasped, the air ripping through her throat as it was pushed from her chest. The second blow somehow hurt even more than the first, a piercing pain that throbbed on skin already smarting from the first hit.

Before the man could throw a third punch, Eleri kicked out wildly with her legs, pushing at his chest with all the strength she could muster and sending him sprawling to the rain-slicked floor below. Her attempt at fighting back only served to anger her assailants further and the broad man released her from his grasp only long enough to turn her to face him and grab her tightly by her hair. Trapped in his fierce grip, she could do nothing to escape as he punched her viciously, her cheekbone cracking under the force of the blow. A scream tore free, her agonised cry echoing off the walls until it filled the small courtyard, and her hands scrabbled at where he held onto her hair in a desperate attempt to free herself. He punched again, the blow landing along her chin and making her teeth clatter.

Her eyes swam as her head thrummed with bursts of pain and she cringed at the taste of blood at the back of her throat. The broad man pulled his fist back, readying himself to deliver another blow, when she jabbed her fingers into his eyes. With a shrill shriek he raised his hands to cover his eyes, letting her body drop to the ground with a wet thump as he doubled over in pain.

Finally gifted with a brief moment of respite, Eleri scrambled hastily to her feet and lunged desperately away from her attackers. Before she could escape, a swift kick to her knee sent her sprawling to the ground, limbs smacking against the flagstones as she landed in a heavy, twisted heap. She groaned in pain as her limbs hummed with the impact, then curled into a ball as the men crowded around her to kick her savagely. Tucking her head into her chest, she covered her face with her hands in an attempt to protect it from the onslaught.

Suddenly the air snapped with energy and a crackle of lightening arched through the air and into the chest of one of her assailants. Eleri risked raising her head in time to see him crumble to the ground, taking a perverse pleasure in watching him writhe as white light skittered across his skin. The second man soon followed in his wake, pushed to the ground under Melly’s great weight, her jaw firmly clamped around his neck. His scream gurgled bloodily as Melly shook her jaw, tearing the man’s throat to shreds.

Small hands on her shoulders made her start and Eleri turned her head to see Merrill kneeling in the rain beside her.

“Are you ok?” Merrill asked, eyes flicking over Eleri’s blood-stained face in an attempt to determine the extent of her injuries. Eleri gave no response, only wrapped her arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug, her choked sobs muffled in Merrill’s cloak.

Merrill pulled her upright and the two women surveyed the scene at their feet, the three men slumped across the floor as the rain pulled their blood into pink swirls across the stony floor. One body lay charred and smoking from Merrill’s lightening, the other a twitching, bloody mess from Melly’s fangs. Eleri hadn’t seen Merrill dispatch the broad man, too preoccupied by the barrage of kicks, but he too lay crookedly on the ground, his chest bludgeoned to a hollow mess from one of Merrill’s more brutal primal spells.

“Let’s go home,” Eleri sighed, anger still bubbling from the attack.

With a silent nod Merril wrapped Eleri’s arm around her shoulder and led her from the carnage. Melly followed in tow, stubby legs carefully stepping over the corpses as she followed her master.

Eleri lurched awkwardly, leaning heavily on Merrill as she struggled to suppress the throbbing pain in her back and the pounding in her skull. She could feel blood oozing from her nose into her mouth, the coppery taste making her already delicate stomach roil.

As she staggered through the grey, drenched streets of Kirkwall, it occurred to Eleri that it wasn’t just the green that she missed. It wasn’t just the mud between her toes or the wind howling between swaying branches. Most of all she missed the feeling of _belonging_. She missed the songs of the elvhenan, the dances by campfire, the hunting parties and the aravels. She missed proudly walking without fear of sneering, without insults. Eleri missed her _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	11. A New Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the attack on Eleri, she and Cullen have some tough decisions to make.
> 
> It’s been a while since we’ve had a Cullen POV chapter!

Cullen’s head was buried in reports, his brows furrowed in concentration as his tired eyes struggled to follow the words. Why did Ser Ardoc have to have such terrible handwriting? It was almost as if the Maker took pleasure in making every task he undertook just that little bit harder than it had to be. He was trying to read as fast as possible, knowing full well that Eleri would be growing increasingly frustrated waiting for him at the Hanged Man, but his efforts to hurry were just causing him to miss crucial information and he found himself having to regularly re-read sentences in order to understand their meaning.

A bell sounded from the central courtyard of the Gallows, its deep, sonorous clang invading Cullen’s office through the window, drowning out the light pattering sound of the rain against his windowpane. He started, leaving fat inkblots across the page where his hands had jerked while poised above the paper. The bell had been unexpected – he was _sure_ it had only been a few minutes since the last toll and-

 _Bugger_.

Clearly more time had passed than he believed. He thought it had only been a few hours, thought he still had plenty of time until Eleri would be expecting him.

He rose from his seat abruptly, hastily pushing the papers that littered his desk into some poor facsimile of order. He was still juggling with sheaves of papers when he heard a commotion from the corridor outside his office, voices raised in vehement disagreement, one voice too young and high-pitched to be a Templar.

Curious, Cullen strode across his office and poked his head into the hallway. At the end of the corridor he could make out a pair of Templars blocking the path of a young elven boy who argued with them with commendable determination to be let through. They were standing too far away for him to properly hear their quarrel but occasionally he would catch small snippets of conversation. Something about “a very important message”, “must be delivered only to the Knight-Captain” and then “sent directly by Merrill.”

Now this perked his attention. Cullen had come to like Merrill a great deal, and he had been happy to lend her his assistance over the past months, but she had never summoned him directly and this unexpected message intrigued him.

“Let the boy pass,” commanded Cullen, still loitering in the doorway to his office.

The Templars stepped aside as the boy pushed between them, keeping their eyes trained on his back as he hurried down the corridor toward Cullen.

“Knight-Captain, I have an important message,” the boy said once he’d reached the doorway to Cullen’s office. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath and Cullen found it oddly alarming that the small boy had clearly run all the way from the alienage. “Merrill sent me, she says you must come right away. Eleri is hurt.”

Cullen felt his stomach drop at the boy’s words, felt his limbs turn cold as the blood in his veins turned to ice.

“Thank you,” he mumbled to the boy with well-conditioned politeness, patting him on the shoulder as the boy nodded at him in response. Without another word, he walked passed the boy, leaving him alone by his office to start hurrying from the Gallows with as much speed as he could muster. He ignored the startled looks from the Templars as he passed them, knowing full well what a peculiar sight he must seem, fraught and frantic. He was immensely grateful he had long given up his Templar armour, his unburdened limbs now able to travel at a far greater speed.

Merrill’s message hadn’t suggested the severity of Eleri’s injury but the mere fact that she had sent a messenger at this hour was enough to worry him. Perhaps she had been taken by slavers once more. Or perhaps she had fallen gravely ill. The squalid confines of the alienage were regularly host to vicious plagues. He tried not to let panic overwhelm him prematurely but Cullen had always had a knack for imagining the worst.

Cullen stumbled clumsily down the last few steps leading into the alienage, his feet not quite moving fast enough to match his haste. He’d travelled from the Gallows to the alienage at a record speed, barely even noticing the heavy rain that had been punishing the miserable city all evening. He entered Merrill’s house without knocking, pushing the door open with such force it smacked against the wall with a loud clack.

Panic squeezed at his chest when he could see no sign of Eleri, not in her cot and not in her favourite seat by the fire, and he surveyed Merrill’s hovel urgently. He found the two women in Merrill’s room; Eleri seated on the edge of Merrill’s bed while Merrill sat beside her and wrapped a long length of fabric around her bare stomach. Even with Merrill blocking his view, he could see that Eleri was grotesquely bruised, fat, uneven splodges staining her skin in a mosaic of purple, blue and yellow. She flinched as Merrill worked, shoulders rising and falling spasmodically with her laboured breathing. The ever-faithful Melly whined at her feet, her muzzle resting atop Eleri’s boots as her doleful eyes stared up at her master’s pained face.

Suddenly Eleri spotted Cullen loitering in the doorway and she must have seen something in his face because she quickly ducked her head and averted her eyes. She gently pushed Merrill back and started buttoning up her shirt, fingers still shaking slightly either from pain or quickly abating adrenaline, and Cullen struggled to understand her sudden modesty. She’d never tried to hide her body from him before, had happily flaunted her figure even from the earliest days of their relationship. He realised belatedly that she was _embarrassed_ , ashamed of her battered body and looking uncharacteristically fragile where she teetered on the edge of the bed.

Merrill quickly stepped aside when she too noticed him standing at the door to her room, excusing herself with a muttered apology and casting him a look twisted with sorrow but also a flash of anger.

With Merrill no longer blocking his view he could finally see the true extent of Eleri’s injuries. Her skin was covered in bruises and welts, purple and black peeking out from her sleeves and reaching from her collar to her neck. She sat awkwardly, arms held away from her body in an attempt to keep them from rubbing against her fresh wounds, and limbs shaking in fitful waves. But worst of all was her face, and he couldn’t help the grimace that pulled at his mouth as he looked at her. Her whole face was marred with dark splotches, her left cheek so swollen she could barely open her eye.

He hated that she looked so wretched, so _small_.

“Are you… ok?” he asked, and the question was so inadequate he could barely suppress the hysterical laughter that tickled at the back of his throat. He expected Eleri to throw him one of her looks, the arched brow and crooked smirk she normally gave him when he said something stupid. But instead her face remained blank and impassive, as if she hadn’t even heard him, and her silence unsettled him far more than even her extensive injuries. He waited for her to speak, breaths shallow with anticipation and eyes welling with too many feelings for him to understand all at once.

“No” she finally answered, attempting a nonchalant shrug but aborting the gesture when it caused her to flinch in pain.

He knelt down on the hard floorboards in front of her, carefully lifting her trembling hands from her lap and entwining them with his own. For a while they sat in silence, Cullen studying Eleri’s tiny hands where they curled in his. He rubbed his thumbs across her palms in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, calloused pads drawing circles until the shaking began to subside.

“There was three of them,” she began once her body had fallen still, “they came out of nowhere… attacked me as I walked through the docks.”

He felt something sharp and stabbing in his chest. It felt a lot like shame. “You were attacked coming to see me.”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” she chided, and for the first time she looked straight into his eyes. “This was _not_ your fault. You can’t keep me safe from every idiot in Kirkwall.”

He raised one hand to rest against her cheek, smoothing the pad of his thumb gently across a bruise that obscured the lines of her vallaslin. “Look what they did to you?” he breathed and the tears he had been holding back since he first laid eyes upon her now started to fall freely down his cheeks.

She covered his hand with her own, leant her cheek into his touch. “I’m ok, Cullen. I’m tougher than I look, remember?” She smiled, a little shyly, but there was something proud in her eyes, something defiant.

He was surprised when a thin laugh escaped from his mouth, relief bubbling from behind his lips at the sight of her smile, however tentative. She bent forward to press her lips against his forehead, then a second kiss to the bridge of his nose, and he could feel her tears splashing onto his own skin, hot trails scouring down his cheeks. The third kiss she pressed against his lips, soft and tender and achingly affectionate. He thought it somewhat ironic that it appeared to be _she_ who was now comforting _him_.

He rose from the floor and settled next to her on the bed. “I’m sorry for what hap-“

“Don’t!” she interrupted, voice stern and sharp.

But her command was not enough to stop him, his guilt making his words trip from his mouth fast and clumsy. “I should have come to the Hanged Man,” he rushed, “then you never would have been in the docks. I shouldn’t have been so late, I should have just – put my work aside. All those reports seem so stupid now!”

“Oh come on, Cullen!” she snapped, and he was surprised at how genuinely angry she seemed. “You’re being ridiculous – blaming yourself for something over which you have no control! Are you going to accompany me everywhere I go? Am I to just – wait around at home until you turn up to escort me? This is _Kirkwall_ and as long as I stay here, I’m going to be in danger. Now either we both get used to that fact or…”

Her voice trailed off then, words lost behind lips drawn thin and stiff. Cullen didn’t like it, nor the way she averted her gaze. “Or what?” he asked insistently, his voice a little more shrill than he would have liked.

“I think… I think I made a mistake coming here.”

Her words hit him hard and he could feel the colour drain from his face. “What?!”

She shook her head as if to deflect his anger. “I have _tried_ , Cullen, I really have,” she said tersely as she rose from the bed, pacing across the room with a pained, uneven gait. Melly jumped up abruptly at Eleri’s sudden movement, watched her warily with a low grumble in the pit of her chest. “I don’t think I can endure it anymore. I’m not a real person here! The way your kind looks at me – it’s like I’m sub-human, some unworthy creature polluting the streets.”

“That’s not-“

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, tell her that she was of course welcome in Kirkwall. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it because, if he was completely honest with himself, he _knew_ that it wasn’t true. The elves had never been treated well in the City of Chains. Too often they had been the victims of slavers, of blood mages. Even the city guard had been known to treat the elves with far greater severity than the other peoples of Kirkwall.

“I could learn to ignore the looks,” she continued, “learn to shrug off the comments and the scolds and the insults. But I don’t _want_ to. And I don’t see why I should _have_ to.”

He stood, strode across the room to stand in front of her and stop her pacing. He brought his arms up, pulling her into the circle of his arms and tucking her head under his chin. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I know, I don’t want to lose you either,” she murmured against his chest, “but… I _belong with my people_. I belong with my Clan.”

He felt his heart drop, something wrenching in his chest at her uncompromising words. “So you’re just going to – leave Kirkwall?” he asked. _Leave me_ , he thought, though he knew he would never vocalise such a sentiment.

She must have heard the pained tremor in his voice because when she pushed back from his chest to look up at him, her face was soft, eyes wide with sympathy. She shook her head apologetically as she gazed up at him. “You, Cullen, are a wonderful, _wonderful_ man… and I am supremely honoured to have known you. But you… are not enough. This _thing_ between us is not enough. I want to go home, I _need_ to.”

“What if I promise something like this will never happen again?”

A mirthless chuckle escaped from her lips. “You cannot promise such a thing.”

He gave her slender form a squeeze, pulling her flush against his chest once more, and he leant forward to place a kiss upon the crown of her head, pointedly ignoring the coppery smell of the dried blood matted in her golden hair.

“But how will you find your people? It has been so long now.”

“Varric,” she replied as if the answer was obvious, and from what little he knew of the cunning dwarf, perhaps it was, “he knows people all across the Free Marches. He will find them.”

“Please don’t go,” he murmured against her hair.

“Please don’t make me stay,” she replied, and her voice was lanced with such sorrow, such longing. He wished he had noticed earlier how much she suffered. Perhaps if he had, he would have been able to do something.

They stood together for a time, arms wrapped tight around each other, breaths raising and falling in time. He wanted to rally, wanted to beg for her to stay, but he had never been one for tantrums and he knew Eleri was not the kind of person to be easily swayed. If Kirkwall truly was making her miserable, he would not be the one to force her to stay.

He thought idly about going with her, about leaving Kirkwall and following her wherever she led him through the Free Marches. But he knew that there would be no place for him amongst her people, he had hardly received the warmest of welcomes the first tight around. And even if the Clan did extend him some sort of uneasy welcome, Cullen knew it unlikely that he would be happy among the Dalish. Cullen was a man of duty and there was simply _too much_ for him to do, too many people who relied on him. The thought was quickly banished.

Maybe he should have told Eleri of the offer one of the Seekers had made him. The Divine was planning on convening an Inquisition to bring an end to the civil war that was rending all of Thedas apart and Seeker Penteghast had offered him a position leading the Inquisition’s forces. He was sorely tempted by the offer, had long felt alienated from his responsibilities as a Templar. But if he went with the Seekers, he could maybe achieve something great, maybe put his skills to good use for the betterment of the whole continent.

He hadn’t told Eleri of what Seeker Penteghast has offered him, had been nervous of how she would react. Of course he knew she wouldn’t go with him. While she found the Chantry teachings interesting, and enjoyed discussing philosophy and doctrine with him, she had always been highly suspicious of the institution; _creepy_ was the exact word she used.

It appeared that the Maker was conspiring to keep them apart, both leaving Kirkwall to fulfill their separate destinies.

* * *

 

Varric found Eleri’s Clan quicker than Cullen would have liked, only taking a few months to locate them camping just east of Tantervale. Cullen thought Varric’s information a little sparse, didn’t like the idea of Eleri trekking through Thedas with just the vaguest inclination as to the whereabouts of her people. But Eleri was confident that the information Varric had provided was sufficient; confident that she and Melly would be able to track down her people once they were close enough.

When it was time to leave, after Eleri had said her farewells to her friends, Cullen accompanied her as she left the city, climbing through the Vinmark Mountains for several hours until they’d reached the main path that would lead her through the mountain range toward Starkhaven and then westerly along the Minanter River. Melly led the way, her stubby legs carrying her along a well-worn path, feet dragging slightly along the dusty ground as if somehow overly burdened.

It had been grey and overcast all morning, a thick pall hanging over the mountains, but as they crested the ridge overlooking the pass leading through Sundermount, the sun broke through the clouds and great sheets of gold cut across the sky. Standing with Eleri against the backdrop of the mountains, Cullen was struck with how agonisingly familiar it all seemed. Here he was once more on the edge of the mountains, looking out toward the curling, bending path that would lead Eleri away from him. It had surprised him how much it had hurt to lose her the first time, to watch her small form shrink into the distance as he stood helplessly behind. They’d become close friends so quickly, her humour and joy giving him the levity that he sorely needed after months of trying desperately to hold the crumbling city of Kirkwall together.

But now it was not just sadness that overwhelmed him, but gut-wrenching, agonising sorrow. Eleri had become like a lifeline to him. Whenever he felt down, whenever the responsibilities of the city weighed too heavy upon him, she would smile at him, and laugh, and tease him for taking himself too seriously, and somehow the weight would lessen. He wasn’t certain if it was love, was not really certain what it was _to_ love, but he knew his feelings for her were stronger than anything he’d ever felt for a woman before.

He clutched on to her hand, squeezing with a ferocity that was probably causing her great discomfort. But she made no attempt to extricate herself, simply returned the squeeze with the same vigour.

“This is it,” she sighed as she turned into him, curling her body into his, “this is the path to Starkhaven.”

He brought his arms up around her, cradling the back of her head with one hand while pulling her flush against him with his other hand on the small of her back.

“I will miss you more than anything,” she whispered against his neck.

“And I, you.”

She pulled back to look up at him, curled her lips into a broad smile that seemed unnervingly out of place on a face so twisted with grief. Lifting her hands to frame his face, she forced him to look straight at her.

“I am _so grateful_ I met you… You are the kindest and noblest of men and I am a better person for having known you.”

A rosy blush dimpled his cheeks as he ducked his eyes; he’d never really received enough compliments to know how to accept them. Pulling her back against his chest, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Thank you for everything,” he whispered against her hair, “and not just for the numerous times you have saved my life. You gave me happiness and good-humour when I thought such feelings beyond me. You have lifted such a great burden from me.”

“It has been my absolute pleasure,” she replied, craning her face back so that the words wouldn’t be muffled against his chest.

Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, her lips pulled down into a scowl and it was such an odd sight on a face more suited for smiles. Her hands stroked up his chest, curling into the lapels of his jacket to pull him down into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. Their kisses had always been such tender, affectionate things but this was hard and unrelenting, a kiss so desperate and frantic it was almost suffocating. His hand strengthened its grip in her hair, angling her face to slant her lips just so against his own. His words of farewell had seemed so inadequate, perhaps this kiss would allow him to convey all the things he had left unsaid.

When their need for air had finally become too strong, they stepped apart, bodies still close enough to feel their breaths mingling in the space between them. She scrunched her eyes shut, forcing some tears to escape and chart a straight course down her cheeks. He peppered a trail of kisses against tear-stained skin, lips pressed lightly against the sworls of her vallaslin.

Reluctantly she pushed him back, pulled herself to her full height as she tugged her jacket straight. He handed her her pack, helped her manhandle it onto her back and tighten the buckles to secure it in place. When she was all set for travel, he knelt down to say his goodbyes to Melly, pressing a kiss to her brow then bursting into stilted laughter as she showered his face with hot, wet slobbers.

“I will miss you too,” he said to the mabari, “you have reminded me what it is to be Fereldan.” She looked at him oddly, head slanted at an angle as she tried to comprehend his meaning.

With a final nod, Eleri turned to walk away, Melly slinking dejectedly in her wake. Cullen cursed her gracefulness as she picked her way effortlessly along the path, feet dancing nimbly over rocks and fallen logs. He watched her as she walked, watched her receding form until she was lost to the mountains.

When he was no longer able to see her, he turned to make his way back to the city. He had things he needed to do, arrangements to make in order to start his new chapter. He would follow the Seekers, join this Inquisition they were putting together in the Frostbacks. Like Eleri, he no longer belonged in Kirkwall. He couldn’t placate the scared, anxious people anymore, couldn’t guide the young Templars in their faith; holding the city together no longer gave him the satisfaction it once did. Perhaps he could find new purpose with the Seekers’ cause. He would bury himself in work and he would thrive under the weight of new responsibilities. Because Cullen was a man built for duty and he excelled when he had a purpose, a goal to achieve and people to serve.

He would think of Eleri when the burden of his new role became too great, he would think of her implacable optimism and her surprising hardiness, he would think of her chiming laughter and her wicked smiles. He knew the memories would bring him grief, would bring a painful reminder of what he had lost, but they would also bring him strength, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end! Sorry it’s kind of sad but that’s where the characters took me. I don’t think Kirkwall is the place for happy endings; maybe they will find theirs in the Frostbacks. 
> 
> There will be an epilogue for those of you who like a bit more closure but this is where the main story ends.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the conclave is destroyed and the sky rent asunder, Cullen finds himself fighting for his life as the demons swarm over the Frostbacks. Amongst the carnage, Cullen bumps into someone he long thought beyond his reach.
> 
> So sorry it has taken me so long to write this epilogue and finish off this story! I am hugely thankful to everyone who has commented on or left kudos on this fic - you brought me such happiness every time I saw that notification in my inbox.

Cullen’s hands were numb, the cold sinking through flesh and sinew until his very bones felt like ice. He could barely even feel the pommel of his longsword, the weapon feeling heavy and clumsy in his grip. He knew that his movements were erratic, that his parries were weak and his strikes wide, but as long as the demons still came, rest was impossible.

He dashed forward to the sneering, shambling creature in front of him; thrust his sword into the demon’s chest while trying to ignore how his muscles screamed in protest. The demon fell with a piercing howl, its body wracked with spasms as it smacked onto the rocks that lined the mountain path, but there was no time for Cullen to celebrate his victory; as soon as one demon was downed, another immediately appeared to take its place.

Cullen forced himself forward with a sound that was half snarl and half pained groan, driving the tip of his longsword into a demon’s neck until he heard the telltale crunch of breaking bones. Pulling his sword free, he ducked to avoid a ball of fizzling, shrieking magic before throwing his shoulder into another demon and forcing the bulbous, warty creature to the ground. He bashed his pommel into the demon’s face, watched with perverse satisfaction as the skull caved in from the force, then heaved his aching body to his feet with all the strength he could muster.

He hacked wildly and desperately as the demons came in waves, shouting orders at his dwindling supply of soldiers in an attempt to bring tactics into this chaotic mêlée of activity. He could tell that they were just exhausted as him, could see from the way their weapons wavered and their stances faltered that they would not be able to survive this assault much longer. And yet they fought on, desperate battle cries filling the crisp, cold air, and Cullen felt a strange swelling of pride at the determination of the charges under his command.

When the final demon in sight dropped to the ground in a puddling, oozing pile of innards, Cullen found himself gulping hungrily to catch his breath and settle his shaking limbs. Certain that this was only a fleeting lull from battle, he nevertheless took a moment to survey the carnage, eyes flickering across the snow-packed earth at the vacant faces of his former comrades. Their dull eyes stared up at him, their lifeless bodies crumpled upon the ground among rivulets of blood and the smeared viscera of demons.

So many dead, _so many_ , and as long as the breach remained open, many more would still fall.

He peered up at the green, swirling vortex that punctured the grey skies above, like a gaping mouth threatening to consume the mountain-scape below. Something about the sight of it made his hair stand on end, made his teeth _tingle_.

“Commander!” came a voice from his side and Cullen started at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. Tearing his gaze from the breach, he turned to look at the young messenger who was waiting patiently next to him.

“Another rift has opened further down the mountain. Lady Cassandra is requesting more men to curb the demons.”

_Oh Maker, another one?_

He let out a weary sigh and scraped his gloved hand across his forehead as if he could wipe away the headache that pulsed behind his eyes.

“Roslin, Billings, Constance!” he called, waiting for his soldiers to step forward to receive his orders, “stay here, hold this position.”

They nodded, faces grim. Three tired, novice soldiers were hardly enough to hold the pass should the demons return in earnest but it was all he could spare right now and it would have to be enough. 

“Guy, Karlson – you’re with me.”

His soldiers in tow, Cullen took off down the mountain with surprising vigour considering his drawn, wretched state. Always a man of duty, if Cassandra needed his help, he would certainly be there to provide it.

As he neared a turn in the road, he could just about discern the green, sickly glow of a rift emanating from among some old ruins just ahead. He could hear the telltale sounds of battle; pained shouting, the dull thud of metal on flesh, and the startling clatter of magic. He squeezed the pommel of his longsword and prayed to the Maker that his grip would last long enough to see him through the next encounter with the demons.

Nearing the ruins, Cullen was brought to a sudden, stunned stop when the rift abruptly blinked shut.

_They’d found a way to close the rifts?!_ He felt something flip unexpectedly in the pit of his stomach, perhaps the tiniest stirring of hope after days of seemingly endless battle.

Cullen and his men helped to finish off the last remaining demons but with the rift closed, it was not long until the foul creatures were disposed of and the clamour of battle fell into a tense silence.

With the fighting over, he sheathed his sword with a satisfying clink, raising his head just in time to see Cassandra’s familiar form detach itself from the cluster of soldiers and scouts, and walk toward him with a smile of greeting.

“Lady Cassandra!” he called, extending an arm to clap her on the shoulder, “you managed to close the breach? Well done!”

She smiled at him, placing her hand over his where it now rested on her pauldron. “Do not congratulate me, Commander, it was the prisoner’s doing.”

The prisoner? He’d heard that someone had been found among the rubble at the conclave, that many believed her responsible for the destruction at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Honestly, he found it hard to believe that a lone elf could be responsible for so much destruction but, still, rumours were hard to quell and he had more important things to worry about than idle gossip. There were also those who called her the Herald of Andraste, who claimed that she was sent by the Maker’s bride to lend aide in Thedas’s time of need. He didn’t care who she was, whether murderer or savior, if she could close the rifts then she was a welcome sight.

“Is it?” he asked as Cassandra stepped aside, craning his neck to get a better view of the woman that hovered uncomfortably behind her.

Suddenly he felt breathless, his balance unsteady, and this time it had nothing to do with the fatigue of endless battle.

Eleri stood before him.

She looked exhausted, her face gaunt and her usually tanned skin sallow and lifeless. Her golden curls stuck in sweaty clumps to her head and there was something skittering and scared behind her eyes. Her clothes were smeared with grime, her face splattered with blood, and the gory remains of demon and human alike clung stubbornly to her boots.

She was the most glorious sight he had ever beheld.

He wanted to rush forward, to grab her and sweep her in his arms and kiss her until her lips were bruised.

Instead he waved at her awkwardly, like an embarrassed adolescent when faced with his schoolyard crush.

“Hi,” he finally managed, his voice sounding small and strangely strangled.

She barked out a laugh, short and a little hysterical, and it had been a long, _long_ time since he’d heard something as sweet.

“It’s been a… long while,” she finally said after a long, pregnant pause, “you look…”

“Awful?” he helpfully supplied.

She laughed again. “Yes… you look _awful_.”

He laughed too now, though his throat was so dry and sore that it sounded more like a wheeze.

Cassandra watched them warily, brows knit in confusion and lips turned down into a slight frown. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah,” Eleri replied airily, though she kept her eyes locked squarely on Cullen’s. “It was… a long time ago now.”

_Was it really that long ago?_ It had only been a few months since he’d last seen her but it felt like a lifetime ago; felt like an eternity since he’d been ensconced in furs in her tent, listening to her endless chatter and melodic laughter as he recovered from battle wounds.

“Right, well, I’m sorry to cut this reunion short but we need to get to the breach,” Cassandra interrupted, sharp and urgent.

He nodded, pulling himself from his reminiscence to focus on the crucial task at hand. “The way to the Temple should be clear. I have men stationed along the path.”

Cassandra turned to address her companions, “We move quickly,” then turned back to Cullen to add, “give us time, Commander.”

He nodded, “Maker watch over you.”

Walking toward Eleri, finally closing the distance between them, he placed a hand tentatively on her elbow, gave it a gentle squeeze in what he hoped was a comforting gesture but feared was an entirely futile one. “Creators watch over you.”

“Thank you,” she responded with a smile, “I know they’ll be watching over you.”

For a moment he thought she was going to say more, her lips held slightly parted, but instead she strode passed him with confident, if slightly laboured, steps until she’d reached Cassandra’s side.

He stood and watched her go as she disappeared up the mountain pass, slightly shaken when he realised that he was, _again_ , watching her walk away from him. But it felt different this time, though he didn’t know why. This time he knew, knew with _absolute certainty_ , that she would be coming back to him. This time he would do things differently, he would figure out a way to make things work. This time would be the last time he ever had to watch her walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! The end!
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


End file.
